


Breaking Grounds

by dicaeopolis



Series: MY ONE PERSON CRUSADE TO PROVIDE TMA FANS WITH NICE THINGS AGAINST ALL EFFORTS OF CANON [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Asexual Jonathan Sims, Canon Asexual Character, Casual Intimacy, Ensemble Cast, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gen, I'm not gonna tag it all but a lot of Jon & Everyone, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, The One Where Nothing Hurts, Trans Male Character, Trans Male Jonathan Sims, Trans Male Martin Blackwood, literally just all fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22295758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dicaeopolis/pseuds/dicaeopolis
Summary: Jonathan Sims, third-year college student, does his psych dissertation on the opposite of fear.Most of it is written in Breaking Grounds, a coffee shop where the employees are the only thing more bitter than the espresso.
Relationships: Georgie Barker & Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: MY ONE PERSON CRUSADE TO PROVIDE TMA FANS WITH NICE THINGS AGAINST ALL EFFORTS OF CANON [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1573123
Comments: 275
Kudos: 464





	1. Elias

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello And Welcome To My wish fulfilment fic about a barista job where your boss literally cannot fire you. the title may be what it may but in my google docs it is simply “the nothing hurts AU.”
> 
> (it’s a slight exaggeration, some things will hurt a bit, but they Will get better and that is a Threat)
> 
> [betsy](http://www.twitter.com/owlinaminor) beta'ed this despite not even being into this podcast. A hero
> 
> suggested listening: fresh fruit (carter reeves), read receipts (kyle thornton)

_ Name: _ Elias Bouchard

_ Usual: _ Americano, two extra shots

_ Statement taken September 24th, 2019, 15:56. Location: Breaking Grounds back office, London. _

* * *

_ “Um, it’d be for practical use, as an extension of cognitive and dialectical behavioral therapy.” Jon shifts in the seat a bit. It’s just a plastic chair in the back office, and, in his nicest button-down and slacks, he feels overdressed. “Alternatives to exposure therapy, you know.” _

_ “Interesting,” says Elias. The manager is a small, thin man, even shorter than Jon, with slicked blond hair going grey at the temples and a permanent sneer. “And what sorts of ‘anti-fear’ techniques are you testing.” _

_ Jon shrugs. “Fairly obvious things so far—music, pictures of loved ones. Exposure therapy can neutralize a fear response, but it can’t create a positive emotion without positive stimuli of its own. With enough classical conditioning, a neutral stimulus can trigger a fear response. We’re exploring the interaction of fear stimuli and positive responses instead.” This is usually the part where people’s eyes start to glaze over, so he adds, “The current trials are fairly preliminary, though. It’s a rather theoretical question, I mean, how do you define the opposite of fear?” _

_ He’d meant it as rhetorical, so it’s a surprise when Elias says, “Knowledge, of course.” _

_ “Uh—pardon?” _

_ “You cannot fear something you understand,” Elias clarifies. “No truth can be more terrifying than the inside of one’s own mind. Rather, being laid bare,  _ known, _ turns the fear back on its source. I’d suggest you pursue the infliction of that fear in your further trials, rather than the elimination of it.” _

_ “Er,” says Jon, “I’ll suggest it to my PI.” (He will not.) _

_ Elias doesn’t say anything for a moment, just looks at him. Jon, against his will, suddenly shivers. It’s ridiculous, given that he’s spent the past two years listening to all the shit his friends have pulled on the manager with utter impunity, to feel a chill at his stare. But Elias’ eyes burn into him, icy and unblinking. _

_ The moment stretches, and finally, Elias says, _

_ “And in a scenario where a customer is displeased with their order—” _

* * *

Georgie had started laughing about halfway through Jon’s description of his interview. She did try to hide it at first, but as Jon gets into the questions about dealing with tough customers and how he answered them, which was with brutal, painful honesty, Georgie can’t bite back her giggles any longer.

Jon gives her a pitiful look. “I—I haven’t interviewed for this sort of thing before, alright?”

“You’re supposed to lie in interviews,” Georgie tells him.

“Yes,” Jon sighs. “Yes.”

“So you didn’t get the job,” Georgie supplies. They’re walking arm in arm, Jon with his messenger bag bumping against his leg, Georgie still in a sweatshirt and spandex from the gym that morning. It’s late afternoon and classes are switching, so the sidewalks are crowded with students weaving around them. Summer has stretched on languid and slow, but as September draws to a close, the daylight is fading faster, the mornings dawning crisp.

Today is one of those jacket-in-the-morning-hot-in-the-afternoon days, and Jon pauses to roll up his sleeves, confirming, “I didn’t get the job." He loops his arm through Georgie's again. "Well, it would’ve been nice, at least. To work with Tim and Sasha. And, er, Melanie.”

Georgie nudges him as they start walking. “She doesn’t dislike you, you know. She’s just… A little abrasive about showing it.”

“Hmm,” says Jon. “Well, the guy interviewing after me looked even worse off. Sweating bullets before he even got in the room.”

“Oh—and it was Elias doing all the interviews?”

“Mmhmm,” says Jon.

Georgie  _ oohs _ in pity. They pause for a crosswalk.

On the other side, Jon says, very softly, “He was… Cute.”

“Elias?”

Jon makes a horrified noise before he realizes she’s teasing again. “Oh, would you  _ hush?” _

“No, no, go on,” says Georgie. “Tell me about him.”

Jon ducks his head. It’s rare, for him to notice passing strangers, and Georgie knows it. Before the two of them dated, the two of them had been friends for almost a year before Jon realized, all of a sudden one autumn afternoon, that she was pretty. “I—I don’t know, he was just—he looked nice. Soft.”

“Soft,” Georgie echoes.

“He was tall, alright,” Jon mumbles. “Nice hair. Glasses. Freckles.”

“Well, who knows,” says Georgie. “Maybe he’ll get hired and you’ll see him all the time.”

Jon’s head snaps up.  _ “No.” _

“No?”

“I  _ cannot _ let Tim and Sasha be around him.” When they were growing up back in Bournemouth, Tim and Sasha bore painful, intimate witness to Jon’s embarrassing phases, which is to say, all of his phases. “They know too much.”

Georgie squeezes his arm. “Well, then, maybe Elias will eat him alive before it becomes a problem. ‘Soft’ doesn’t sound like it’ll last long at Breaking Grounds.”

Jon hums agreement. As a general rule, the equilibrium of his social circle’s favorite coffee shop is maintained by two factors: first, that Elias is far too unpleasant of a manager for any employees to stay long, and second, that the staff he does manage to keep are too unpleasant as employees to keep any other job. Sasha ‘accidentally’ breaks the registers in Elias’ full view, Melanie tears apart any customer who so much as looks at her funny, Tim shows up to shifts with his whole ass hanging out of his shorts. That type of thing.

“I did talk to him about my diss,” Jon adds. “To Elias, I mean.”

“Oh? He asked?”

“Er, I think it was just out of obligation to seem interested in me, but yeah.” Jon frowns to himself for a moment. “I think it might’ve been the most successful part of the interview, actually-"

Georgie starts snickering again at the reminder so Jon ends the story there, grumbling about how at least Tim made him a cappuccino before he left.

He and Georgie both have the afternoon off, so they’re not really walking with much direction. It is the second day of the semester, and they’ve already started filling up the calendar on their fridge: Jon’s lab time, the literature lecture Georgie TAs for, the election, Sasha’s birthday, the next Star Wars movie’s release date. Tonight is also a start-of-the-semester-slash-flatwarming dinner with Melanie King, who is Georgie’s—er—uh—

Well, if nothing else, she’s the reason Jon sleeps at Tim and Sasha’s sometimes.

“Why  _ did _ she end up getting a new place?” Jon asks. “I know Ghost Hunt UK stopped uploading new videos, but that’s about it.”

_ “Well,” _ says Georgie, in that exciting tone that implies serious drama. 

_ “Oh? _ Tell me everything.”

“So they were all sharing a place,” Georgie begins. “The people from the show, I mean. And then, you remember the guy who did their sound stuff?  _ He _ started dating this girl Sarah, who was really into taxidermy and kept bringing home  _ roadkill. _ And then their lighting girl called a meeting about it,  _ not _ about the roadkill, but about how apparently  _ she _ also wanted to date Sarah—”

Jon nods and  _ mm _ s and  _ oohs _ for about twenty minutes, utterly fascinated. There is very little he likes more than hearing about drama that doesn’t concern him.

“…And they haven’t seen Andy since,” Georgie finishes.

“Good lord.”

“And now Melanie’s living with someone she found on Gumtree.” Georgie shakes her head a little. “Apparently they’re getting along so far.”

“Mm, I hope they can cook.”

“It’s a he, and me too.” Melanie, although a good barista and a fantastic barkeep, mostly survives off frozen meals and takeout. “But yeah, it’s all very complicated.”

Jon hums knowingly. “Yes, Melanie does tend to  _ complicate  _ things, doesn’t she.”

“Don’t you start with me,” Georgie mutters.  _ “You _ can’t even talk to her without looking like a deer during hunting season.”

“Oh, and you?” Jon drawls, crackling dry. “Would you call yourself ‘friends?’”

Georgie does the noncommittal-noise-furrowed-brow-hand-wave thing she does whenever Jon pushes her on this topic.

“Mm, that’s what I thought.”

She turns the frown on him. “Maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t get hired. She’d eat you alive before Elias even got the chance to.”

“Dick,” Jon mutters under his breath.

“Bitch.”

“Want to head over to her place now?”

“Yeah, sure.”

They remember, too late, that dinner parties usually require a gift. Georgie runs back to the nearest liquor store to grab a bottle of wine for propriety’s sake and a handle of tequila for Melanie to actually drink, while Jon heads on to the address Melanie texted their group chat. It's one of those old brick buildings that are all jammed together in Camden, the kind that a realtor would call  _ distinguished _ or  _ quaint. _ There is the subtle but unmistakable grunge of a place long occupied by students. A few flags and signs are visible - a bi flag in one window, a Jolly Roger in another, a hand-scrawled VOTE LABOUR! taped up in a third with the sort of optimism Jon wishes he shared.

Sasha is waiting to be buzzed in when Jon arrives. She kisses him on the cheek and asks how his interview went.

_ “Well,” _ Jon says.

“Oh?”

“I was not,” says Jon, starched, “offered a job.”

Sasha raises an eyebrow.

“I do not think,” Jon continues, “that anyone has ever been  _ less _ offered a job.”

Sasha cackles. “Well, that’s alright. Elias is a bitch anyway. But I’m impressed—a manager that nobody else will work for, and employees that nobody else will hire. I don’t know that I’ve ever actually seen him refuse an applicant.”

“I am a man of many talents,” says Jon. “Is, er, is Melanie not in?” They’re still standing on the sidewalk.

“She isn’t answering my texts. I was just going to wait and maybe call her in a bit.”

“Sasha,” says Jon, “the doorbell.”

“…Oh. Yeah.” Sasha, whom Jon hasn’t seen separated from her phone and laptop since year eight, puts her phone away and pushes the bell. Melanie buzzes them in almost immediately.

“You mentioned,” Jon says carefully as they climb the stairs, “he usually hires everyone who interviews?”

“Yeah? As far as I know. I mean, it’s not like many apply in the first place, and we have such a high turnover ‘cause of him that we can’t really afford to turn anyone away.”

“Did he, er,” says Jon. “The, ah, there was another person who interviewed after me. Did. Um.”

“Oh, the soft one?”

“See, I  _ told _ Georgie he was soft!”

“Er, yeah, I think he got an offer? Tim said he looked alright coming out of it.”

“Tim  _ cannot  _ meet him,” Jon mutters.

Sasha pauses on the landing and turns to him, eyebrow raised.

“I—don’t look at me like that, he’s—” Jon fumbles around for a little bit. “He was—he—I don’t even know his  _ name, _ Sasha.”

“Well, you might have to fight for him,” Sasha tells him. “Tim’s actual words were,  _ he looks more than alright.” _

_ “No,” _ says Jon. “No. You  _ know _ I can’t compete—no—I—”

“If you want Tim to step aside, you’ll need to tell him so,” Sasha points out.

Jon makes a pathetic little distressed noise. Sasha doesn’t say a word, but Jon can  _ feel _ her amusement.

“Do you think there’s any way he’ll get fired before Tim can talk to him?” Jon asks as they push open the door of Melanie’s new flat and step inside.

“Not a chance in hell.”

The flat smells suspiciously delicious. Like mashed potatoes and roast beef and onions and garlic and maybe even some greens in there. Sasha heads towards the voices in the living room, but Jon ducks off into Melanie’s kitchen to investigate.

It’s  _ possible _ that Melanie’s new flatmate is a good cook. It's certainly a bigger kitchen than the one at the Ghost Hunt UK place, though Jon wouldn't call a London student flat  _ big _ by any stretch of the imagination, and it looks clean, though lord knows how long that'll last. He does recognize the little red rice cooker on the counter, one of few appliances he's reasonably sure Melanie knows how to use. There’s a few casserole dishes in the oven, full of various tasty-looking things, and a cooling rack full of chocolate chip cookies on the counter. Jon didn’t think Melanie had ever met a cooling rack in her life.

But the sink holds only a single mixing bowl. Jon pokes around a bit and then, after a quick glance to make sure no one is there, pulls the top off Melanie’s recycling and finds about two hundred empty cardboard boxes.

_ Bingo. _ Jon pulls out two handfuls, matching the instant meals to the dishes in the oven, and grins to himself. He’s not going to say anything, of course. There’s just something about a mystery well solv—

Someone clears their throat. Jon’s head jerks up.

_ Someone  _ is standing in the doorway—filling it up, actually, broad and tall. He’s got dark freckles and pretty brown eyes and a soft-looking afro. He also looks faintly anxious, twisting his hands together, which is odd, given their respective positions.

_ Someone _ is the soft man from Breaking Grounds.

_ Oh, dear god, _ Jon thinks faintly. He puts down the boxes from the recycling and says the first thing that comes into his head, which is an accusatory, “How tall are you?”

“Um, six one, I think? Why, um, why are you.” The man clears his throat. “Why are you looking at our garbage?”

So that’s  _ great. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come hang on [twitter](https://twitter.com/medeawasright/status/1219675722958000128?s=19) and [tumblr](https://dicaeopolis.tumblr.com/post/190387134602)


	2. Daisy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite everything about himself and his personality, Jon makes some friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forgot to mention this but I'm painfully American, I'm doing my best with research but feel free to britpick anything I missed. the exception is spelling it ass instead of arse. I lived through 2010 hetalia fandom I can't do that shit again
> 
> oliver banks is here now because. I love him.
> 
> suggested listening: ride (clans), beverly blues (opia)

_ Name: _ Alice “Daisy” Tonner

_ Usual: _ Raspberry mocha

_ Statement taken September 24th, 2019, 17:32. Location: Flat of Daisy Tonner and Basira Hussain, Camden, London. _

* * *

The soft person's name is Martin K. Blackwood. For the past four years he’s been studying English at the uni, and for the past week he's been Jon's roommate's noncommittal-noise-furrowed-brow-hand-wave's roommate, and for the past twelve hours he's been an employee of Breaking Grounds.

Jon learns all this from Melanie, during a hushed, urgent hallway conversation that goes like this:

_ "I mean, why do you even care so much?" she asks, after conveying all the information she has about Martin K. Blackwood. "You can't be that upset that he took the job opening, Elias is a huge bitch." _

_ "It's—it's not that, I just—he—" _

_ "Spit it out, Sims." _

_ "I—" Jon splutters. "He saw me digging through your  _ garbage, _ Melanie." _

_ "And  _ why…"

_ "It's—I was, uh. I was wondering where the food had come from." _

_ "You," Melanie tells him, "are a prick." _

_ "I know," Jon says miserably. _

And then they're interrupted by said Martin K. Blackwood, who comes into the hall with a "Melanie, can I talk to you, I need to know— _ oh. _ Oh, uh, I'll—"

"Don't leave, Martin," Melanie snaps. Martin stops dead halfway through fleeing. "Jon, scram."

Jon scrams. He shoulders past Martin—who is  _ even taller up close, oh dear _ —and manages to studiously avoid meeting his gaze as he escapes into the living room.

It  _ is _ on the bigger side, for a student flat. There's a table with four chairs around it, and a battered sofa and a few armchairs that Jon recognizes from Melanie's old place. Georgie had helped haul the furniture up the stairs last week, before the soft person— _ Martin _ —had moved in. Jon, who would struggle to break a toothpick, had not been asked to help.

Currently, it's crowded full. Tim is there with Sasha, chatting with two women Jon doesn't know. He recognizes various faces from guesting on Ghost Hunt UK, and there's a couple of hipster-looking types Melanie probably knows from the film department. Most importantly, Georgie is there, kneeling by the doorway to unlace her shoes. There's a brown paper bag on the floor next to her.

_ "Georgie," _ Jon hisses, scuttling over.  _ "He's here." _

"What, who?" Georgie stands, kicking her converse the rest of the way off.

She's changed; must've had a spare outfit stashed in her bag. A Ghost Hunt UK t-shirt with the sleeves and most of the sides cut off, and—Jon frowns at her, momentarily distracted. "Are those my skinny jeans?"

"Not important. Who's here?"

"Right, yes.  _ The soft person. From Breaking Grounds." _ Jon's hands flutter as he tries and fails to gesticulate his emotions. "Georgie, he  _ lives  _ here."

"What, but— _ oh. _ The roommate."

"The roommate," Jon confirms. "Georgie. He, uh."

"He…?"

"He caught me digging through their garbage."

Georgie fixes him with an unimpressed look. "Jon…"

"Well,  _ technically _ it was the recycling—it's not important, I just…  _ Help." _

Georgie puts her arm around Jon's shoulders and tells him gently, "You definitely deserve whatever you've gotten yourself into."

Jon kind of whimpers at her, but she's steering him towards Tim and Sasha and before Jon can say more he's enduring the horror of being  _ introduced _ to people.

The two women are Basira, a tall, Arabic woman with piercing brown eyes, and Daisy, who looks like she could punch through a brick without flinching—broad shoulders, wife beater, tight reddish-brown ponytail. They're Martin's and Melanie's new neighbors. Tim mentions Jon’s research and Jon gives the quick-and-dirty explanation, and then immediately embarrasses himself by asking what Daisy and Basira study and learning that they are both, in fact, dropouts.

"Police academy, not the uni," Daisy explains to Jon, as Basira starts chatting with the others about this god-awful band called Grifter's Bone that they apparently all like. "We didn't care for," and she bares her teeth, "the violence."

"Huh," says Jon helplessly. "And, er, how are you liking, um."

He trails off under Daisy's intense scrutiny. It's less like Melanie's bird-of-prey glare, and more like a bull staring down a flimsy wooden fence before deciding that he can, in fact, smash through it.

"Come with me," Daisy orders.

"Uh—"

But she's already heading to the door. Jon hurries after her. Over his shoulder, he sends Georgie his best  _ I'm-going-to-die _ look. She waves back as Jon disappears through the door.

Daisy leads him to the next flat down the hall and lets herself in. She flicks on the lamp, a single bare bulb, which illuminates a sparsely furnished place identical in layout to the one next door. A few stray jackets on hooks by the door and a few scattered cans are the only signs that they've lived here any longer than Melanie and Martin.

"Lovely place," Jon says on complete instinct. He'd probably say the same if it were a murder shed.

Daisy grunts and heads for the corner of the room. When Jon doesn't follow immediately, she glances back at him and insists, "Come  _ on." _

Jon stutters a few steps after her—and then he sees what's on the table in the corner, and lets out an involuntary  _ ohhhhh. _

_ "Yeah," _ Daisy says. She unhooks the wire door and reaches in with impossibly gentle hands to pull out the tiny ball of fluff.

The rabbit is barely big enough to fill both her hands. He's got  fur brindled r ed and brown and grey and black and two tiny ears and a fluffy mane around his neck, and he blinks owlishly up at them with tiny dark eyes.

_ "Oh," _ says Jon. "Oh. I understand."

"Mufasa," says Daisy.

"Oh—oh, because of the— _ oh. _ Oh, wow."

Daisy deposits the kit in Jon's hands. Mufasa is still blinking away sleep, which is probably the only reason he doesn't hop away immediately. Jon holds perfectly still as the rabbit's tiny, twitching nose examines every centimeter of his hands.

When Mufasa does finally jump out of Jon's hands and onto the floor, he's left behind one small, perfectly round pellet. Jon has to blink a lot all of a sudden.

Daisy gently steers Mufasa with her hand away from the lamp cord. "We usually let him stay out when we're here," she tells Jon, "but he tries to chew on the cords if we aren't watching."

Jon puts the pellet in the cage. They watch him hop around for a moment, both utterly fascinated.

“Your diss,” says Daisy suddenly. “The fear thing.”

“Mmhmm?”

“You should try things like this.” She jerks her chin down towards Mufasa.

“Therapy animals? It’s certainly worth looking into, yes—”

“It doesn’t  _ have  _ to be animals,” Daisy cuts him off. She scowls down at the kit, rubbing the back of her neck. “Just—things that grow.” Jon inclines his head towards her, a silent  _ go on. _ “Like—if you’re afraid of something, it takes up your whole head. And it makes you angry, it makes you hurt people. Cause that’s safer.”

"It cauterizes you,” Jon supplies.

“Don’t know what that means,” Daisy mutters. “The important thing is being able to grow parts of yourself that the fear hasn’t gotten to. You can’t really heal the parts of you that want to hurt people, but you can outnumber them."

"Mmhmm?"

"It’s like—when me and Basira—when we left the academy and got this place—and Mufasa—it was—it—” She tries a few more syllables and then just gives up and curls back into herself with a grumbled, “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” says Jon softly, “I understand.”

When they do put Mufasa back in his cage and leave, Jon has forgotten about the garbage incident entirely.

They re-enter Melanie's flat to dinner in full swing. There's only four real chairs, so people are sitting cross-legged two to an armchair, perched on the back of the sofa, balancing plates on laps. Jon and Daisy duck in just as Melanie is standing on one of the chairs and calling for silence.

"Ah, nice of you to join us, Sims," she calls. Jon freezes in place, ears burning. Fortunately, she doesn't seem inclined to dwell on it. "Anyway, thank you everyone for coming. You're all welcome to join us breaking this place in—" she hefts a bottle from Georgie in each hand— "as I hope to do again many times in the future."

She sits back down to cheers and a few whistles. Melanie is not one for long speeches.

Jon dips into the kitchen to wash his hands and serve himself a plate, not without being reminded of his abundant guilt as he passes the recycling bin. He settles down on the sofa arm next to Tim, legs tucked underneath himself. Tim loops an arm around Jon's waist to stabilize him and keeps right on chatting away to Basira, with whom he's apparently hitting it off.

Martin K. Blackwood is at the small table too, along with Antonio, the only member of Ghost Hunt UK with whom Melanie is apparently still on speaking terms, and Georgie. Martin doesn't seem so tall sitting down—he hunches his shoulders, and his occasional laugh at Melanie's jokes is more nervous than amused. Jon doesn't realize he's staring until Martin looks up and meets his eyes. Jon's gaze drops immediately, and he shrinks into Tim's shoulder.

When he does look up, Martin is still watching  _ him. _ Martin scrambles to look back to the other people at the table. As Jon watches, he slowly goes  _ flushed. _

_ Oh, _ Jon thinks faintly.  _ Oh. I see. _

Melanie starts making the rounds when she's done eating. Georgie starts talking to Martin, which is dangerous in and of itself, but even without that to occupy Jon's thoughts, he's fairly content to stay quiet amongst the conversations. Jon isn't an introvert, not really, just—he gets overwhelmed, when it's all at once, and when Jon gets overwhelmed he gets prickly and it all goes wrong very quickly. It's better like this, when he can lean into Tim and watch social currents flow around him.

Sasha does join them after a moment, but she doesn't disturb Jon's peaceful bubble. Just sits on the back of the sofa, rests a hand on his shoulder, and joins in chatting with Tim and Basira (and, theoretically, Daisy, who’s on Basira’s other side, but she’s staying about as quiet as Jon is). Tim shifts a little, keeping his arm around Jon's waist but scooting back between Sasha's legs and hooking one arm over her thigh as well. Jon rests his cheek against Sasha's arm for a moment, and all is as it should be.

Eventually, though, it comes time for Jon to do what he always does when he's over someone's for dinner, which is to do the dishes as an excuse to flee socializing. He disentangles himself from his friends and slips off towards the kitchen.

It isn't ‘til he's stepping in that he realizes Martin had no longer been at the table, and then there he is, at the sink with—with his  _ sleeves rolled up, dear lord. _ Jon freezes in the doorway and clears his throat. Martin whirls around, sudsy and stuttering.

"Sorry, sorry, I'll be back in a moment, I just—oh, Jonathan?"

"Er," says Jon. "Hi."

_ Sparkling intellect from Sims as always, _ drawls the little Melanie in his head.

"I, uh, friends usually call me Jon," he adds.

Which is great, just  _ great, _ because  _ obviously _ this man he's hardly  _ met _ is going to assume that Jon's excluding him from the category of  _ friend, _ Jon is really in peak form tonight.

Martin blinks at him with wide brown eyes, looking kind of like a cornered baby rabbit, which is  _ really _ unnecessary, honestly. He extends a hand, looks down and gazes upon the soap bubbles, and slowly withdraws it. "Um. I'm Martin. Martin K. Blackwood."

"I know," says Jon. Wait— _ fuck. _ "Er—I mean—Melanie told me. That's how I knew."

There is the longest moment of Jon's life. He's looking at the most beautiful man in the world and Martin's looking back and the dishwater on the lip of the sink is soaking into Martin's shirt and Jon _ really _ wants to say something about it but the silence is far too excruciating to break.

Both their eyes dart to the recycling bin at the same time.  _ Oh, dear god. _

"I wanted to—" Jon begins, just as Martin says, "I'll be back in—"

There is the usual stop-start-no-you-go-oh-er-okay, and then Martin says, "I was just washing a few dishes, I'll be back in a moment."

"Oh." Jon blinks at him. "I—I was coming to do the same."

"But—I'm the host?"

"But I want to avoid the party."

They stare at each other.

And then, without breaking eye contact, Martin reaches to one side, plucks the dish towel from its hook, and offers it to Jon.

They wash dishes. There's hardly any actual cookware, but plenty of plates and glasses and mugs with a little wine in the bottom. Jon takes the dishes as Martin passes them to him, mumbling a vaguely incoherent apology every time their fingers brush. The silence is still supremely awkward, but at least Jon can focus on figuring out where things go instead of on how Martin smells like chocolate chip cookies.

He's almost managed to forget how terribly he's embarrassed himself when Martin blurts out,

"Sorryfortakingyourjob."

"Huh?" Jon says eloquently. "Oh. Oh, don't worry about it, I didn't really have a chance anyways—I interview awfully and Elias is a real bitch—you  _ do _ know he's a bitch, right-?"

"Well—I mean—it's kind of obvious?"

A startled laugh bursts from Jon's throat. Martin's small giggle in response is world-shattering.

There's quiet again, mostly. Jon starts processing the clinking of dishes, the swish of the water, the muffled chatter from the other room. He wipes out a wine glass, with a little noise of surprise that Melanie owns wine glasses, and starts opening and shutting cabinets, trying to figure out where it goes. And then Martin says lightly,

"Looking for more cardboard boxes?"

Jon freezes. He puts the wineglass down, very slowly, and resists the urge to put his face in the dish towel.

When he turns, Martin's cheeks have the specific pinch of someone who is biting the inside of their cheek to try not to smile. Jon wants to  _ die. _

"You don't have to explain," Martin says, a small mercy.

"I  _ really _ do," says Jon, kind of strangled and hoping desperately that when they're octogenarians with a porchful of grandchildren this will be a funny story to laugh about. "Please."

"Okay," says Martin K. Blackwood, in a go-ahead voice.

"So I've known Melanie for, um, three years?" Jon begins. "Through Georgie—she's the girl with the undercut afro out there—"

"Oh, we were sitting together, yeah—"

"Oh, right—yeah—yeah, Georgie, we live together. She's, um, she's Melanie's uh, erm."

"As far as I can tell, she's her," says Martin, and then does the noncommittal-noise-furrowed-brow-hand-wave thing.

_ "Exactly! _ So I know Melanie through her, and—well, we're sort of friends? I think? Either way, I've spent plenty of time at her place when she was living with the people from her YouTube channel—"

"Oh! Oh, sorry, sorry didn't mean to interrupt-"

"No, no, go on—"

"Er - yeah, it's just - what  _ did _ happen? Not that I'm not glad to have a flatmate, but—I can't help but be curious?"

_ "Well," _ says Jon.

And Martin's eyes  _ light up. _ "Oh?"

Jon tries to bite back his grin, and fails. He  _ loves _ drama that doesn't concern him. "So the guy who did their sound stuff started dating this girl who—wait, before I get into  _ that, _ d'you mind if I ask—how'd  _ you _ end up living with Melanie?"

"Oh, uh, Gumtree?" says Martin. "But, I mean, before that, um, I'm actually new to town? I mean, I've been at the uni for a while now, um, I'm in my fourth year, actually, had to take some time off—and I've been commuting." Jon  _ mmhmm' _ s, hoisting himself up to perch on the counter as he listens. He  _ still _ isn't as tall as Martin, dear lord. "But my mother, uh, she just moved into an assisted living home, and sold the house, so I'm living in the city now—and I figured I might as well find a job while I'm here, and Melanie mentioned that the coffee shop she works at was hiring—"

"But she didn't tell you the boss is a bitch?"

Martin sputters a little, which is nearly too much for Jon to handle. "I mean—she may have mentioned that they have a fairly high turnover, but I figured, how bad can it  _ really _ be?"

"When Sasha started there," says Jon, "he hadn't done inventory in three years."

"Oh," says Martin.

"On the plus side, uh—no dress code?" Jon shrugs helplessly. "Tim always has ninety percent of his skin showing when I'm in."

"Tim's the, uh—"

"The hot one, yes."

"I was going to say, 'purple hair,'" says Martin, "but, well, yeah."

"I think he brings in the customers," Jon mutters, suddenly sour. He has abruptly remembered that Tim, too, has noticed Martin.

"Eh, I mean, he's not really my type, you know?"

"Oh?" says Jon.

He hadn't intended his voice to dip so low when he said that, so—maybe Martin also hadn't intended to be a few steps closer than he had been. Maybe he hadn't intended the coy little glint in his eyes as he looks down at Jon.

Then they both break into nervous, breathy laughter and avoid each other's eyes for a moment, and then Martin says, "But the Ghost Hunt UK gang."

_ "Right, _ yes, so—"

For all his academic intellect, Jon has never been the most perceptive. He later blames this for the fact that he doesn't notice the voices outside turning to tones of this-was-so-nice and thanks-for-coming and have-a-good-night, and then quieting. He doesn't notice the window over the sink turning dusky and then dark, and he  _ certainly _ doesn't think to check his watch. The only indication of time passing is when Georgie comes into the kitchen in her underwear.

"Oh— _ Jon?" _ she says, at the same time that Martin squeaks and covers his eyes. Jonze who sees Georgie at home in this same sports bra and boxer briefs more often than not, just blinks at her.

"Yes?"

"It's, uh, it's eleven PM."

"What? No."

"Uh, yeah. Sorry, um, we thought Martin was asleep—I figured you'd gone home—Tim found a conquest so I assumed Sasha would be staying over ours—"

Martin is keeping his eyes determinedly covered. Georgie takes advantage of this to raise her eyebrows at Jon and cut her eyes back and forth between the two of them several times, and  _ now _ Jon realizes that he's been on this kitchen counter for about four hours and starts feeling his cheeks go hot.

His skin's too dark for the blush to really show, but Georgie  _ knows _ when he's flustered and he knows she knows and it takes a moment for Jon's schooled manners instinct to kick in. "Oh, um, no, not at all, sorry, just, er, lost track of time, sorry, I'll, uh—were you going to stay the night?

"No," says Georgie. And  _ that's _ something to talk about—or, well, something for Jon to  _ try _ and talk to her about—but later. "Are you?"

"N-no! No, er—want to split a Lyft?" It's too close for the Tube to be worth it, and Jon gets just a bit nervous walking late at night.

"Yeah, sure." Georgie looks between Jon and Martin a few more times, and then nods at the sink. "I was just, uh, gonna grab some water."

"Oh! Oh, right, sure." Jon hops off the counter and passes her the wineglass that he still hasn't put away. Martin shuffles to the side, allowing access to the sink, without uncovering his eyes. Georgie fills her glass and heads out, but not without another long, meaningful look at Jon.

Jon clears his throat. "Er—she's gone."

Martin removes his face from his hands. "I," he says, "was not expecting that."

"Yeah, the two of them are kind of, uh…"

Martin supplies the noncommittal-noise-furrowed-brow-hand-wave.

"Yeah," says Jon. "Yeah. Um. Well, I’ll just, uh."

He ducks out of the little kitchen, heading for the door—and then, swiftly, glances back over his shoulder.

Martin drops his gaze the second Jon looks, but Jon can  _ tell _ that he was watching him go.

He feels dangerously giddy as he and Georgie head down the stairs and into the London night.

The ride home is mostly quiet, save for Georgie's  _ "So." _ and Jon's vehement nodding, and then Jon's "You?" and Georgie's noncommittal-noise-furrowed-brow-hand-wave. It isn't ‘til they're turning down their block that Jon says aloud,

"Shit."

"Hmm?"

"I never got around to telling him why I was in their recycling."

"You deserve everything that happens to you," Georgie says with a yawn as they slide out of the Lyft and head up into their home.

* * *

“Mind if I join you?” the man repeats.

“Oh—sure,” Jon says, and puts his earbud back in. It’s a perfectly reasonable request—it’s a Saturday morning and the students have all just gotten back into town, so Breaking Grounds is crowded full. The seat across from Jon might be the last one open in the whole shop.

The man sits. Jon glances at him over the top of his laptop screen. He’s nearly as dark-skinned as Jon is, with dreads even more greyed, and handsome in an older, distinguished sort of way. Tweed blazer, Oxfords, a small pair of opaque black spectacles with gold wire. There are a few permanent lines in his forehead and around his eyes.

_ Careworn, _ Jon’s brain supplies. Like he’s seen some fundamental truth of the universe, and found deep, deep sadness in it.

The shades meet Jon’s gaze. Jon looks back to his laptop, but he isn’t quick enough to pretend he doesn’t notice the man saying something. Cursing internally, he pauses his music and loops his earbuds around his neck, resigning himself to a conversation.

“What are you working on?” the man is asking.

“Er—I’m doing my dissertation, uh, psychology. Just got back from the summer holidays, so I’m only just getting started…” Jon glances down at the Google doc open on his screen. It is depressingly blank. He taps out a sad little header and then pauses again.

“Ah? What about?”

“Fear,” says Jon. This is the part he is quite sure about. (He’s had to remind himself, as deadlines start to loom, that he does, in fact, love his research.)

The man inclines his head for Jon to continue. Jon shifts a little. “Er… The nature thereof, really. It’s a big question, of course. I won’t bother you with the theory—”

“No, no, by all means, go ahead.”

“Well,” says Jon, giving the man a curious look. It isn’t often that someone outside his department is willing to hear about his studies. “On a very base level—fear of violence, physical pain, the dark—you’ve got your fight or flight response, adrenaline and all that. Which is what kept our ancestors alive, of course.”

“Right,” the man agrees. “The human species genetically selects for fearfulness.”

Jon nods. “But so does every other species. There  _ are _ two other stages of fear, one preceding the fight-or-flight response, one following it. The freeze phase, as a response to a potential or imagined fear, removes your ability to focus on anything else. And then the fright phase, when you’re so consumed by fear, you can do or think of nothing else.”

“I can’t imagine those are found much outside of humans,” the man observes.

“They’re both exclusive to sapient creatures,” Jon confirms.

“And your research?”

“Well, it’s my PI’s, really, I’m still an undergrad. But we’re looking into mitigating those two phases, particularly fright, as an alternative to exposure therapy. Evoking a positive response, rather than flooding the mind with a negative one.”

“So you’re looking to fight Fears, then,” the man observes. He sounds a little amused.

“Er—well, if you want to put it philosophically, I suppose.” Jon shifts a little. “How about you, then? Any, ah, demonic terrors to pit yourself against?”

“Me?” The man chuckles a little. “Hardly.”

“Surely you’re afraid of something.”

“I fear many things,” says the man. “Spiders. Loneliness. The dark. But I do not struggle with them.”

“Yeah? How do you manage that?”

“One day, I will die. Does it matter the date or the method?” The man sips his latte, voice clear and unworried. “I could surround myself with loved ones, I could kill every spider I see, I could keep a torch in my pocket at all times, I could mitigate every fear I know. I would still die. As will you. As will everyone and everything else in this room.”

“And that brings you peace?”

“Is there an alternative?”

“What’s your name?” Jon asks.

“Oliver Banks,” the man answers. He pauses, and then smiles. “You have a way of asking questions, Mr.…?”

“Sims—”

Jon’s been half-watching the door for a few hours, so when it swings open with a little jingle and Martin K. Blackwood comes in, he cuts himself off immediately. He’s been floating on the high of Tuesday night for days now, but he hadn’t gotten Martin’s number and there would've been absolutely no end to it if he'd asked Melanie and he's fairly awful at texting anyway. He hadn’t come here  _ specifically _ to see if Martin would be on—Jon practically lives in this shop anyways, especially with a dissertation to do—but…

It hadn’t  _ not _ been on his mind.

Martin glances around the shop as he heads behind the counter—and when his eyes settle on Jon, a shy smile flashes over his lips. Jon returns it and then smiles down at his keyboard as Martin goes to pull on an apron.

He feels like a teenager with a crush. He feels  _ wonderful. _

“Ah,” says Oliver Banks, who’s watched the whole interaction. There’s a smile lurking around the corner of his mouth.

There actually isn’t a line right now, so Martin just folds his arms and leans on the counter, watching the busy room. When his gaze sweeps over Jon, it stutters—moves away—comes back.

Jon’s already half-standing before he remembers he has company. He glances back down at Oliver. “Er—sorry, but I—”

“Go,” Oliver Banks encourages him. He sounds utterly delighted.

Jon goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/medeawasright/status/1224221885514293248?s=19) [tumblr](https://dicaeopolis.tumblr.com/post/190620776492) [betsy](http://www.twitter.com/owlinaminor)
> 
> comments fuel me


	3. Basira

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE BOYS ARE FLIRTINGGGGGG

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'VE HIKED 650 MILES SINCE I UPDATED. the next two chapters will happen More Quickly. (i know this because they are both done already)
> 
> no knowledge of Catan or egyptian ratscrew necessary to understand this chapter
> 
> suggested listening: nothing but the radio (maia sharp), lover to lover (florence and the machine)

_Name:_ Basira Hussain

 _Usual:_ Yeah

_Statement taken October 11th, 2019, 11:43. Location: Breaking Grounds, London._

* * *

_October 4, 2019_

_12:03 p.m._

Georgie  
?  
what's going on  
Melanie says you're causing trouble

Jon  
I'm sure I don't know what you mean.

Georgie  
she says you're distracting her employees

Jon  
Technically, he is Elias' employee.

Georgie  
not saying stop but what _are_ you doing exactly

Jon  
It's more what I'm trying to do, honestly.

Georgie  
eyes emoji  
ah cmon don't leave me on read i need deets  
JON

"He is in _training,"_ Melanie hisses over the counter, when Martin's busy with some customers at the till.

"I just want a coffee," Jon protests.

"I'll make you your fucking coffee, then," she retorts. Jon says several noncommittal reluctant things, and Melanie rolls her eyes. "Alright, then, come back when there's not a fucking rush on—ugh, would you stop _moping?_ Look—he's only got, like, an hour of training left, and then Tim will be here and you can all have boys time while I fix Elias' fucking supply order for the third week in a row."

"I—I'm not _moping,"_ Jon protests.

"Shut the fuck up," Melanie tells him. "And get the fuck out of my shop."

"Technically, it's Elias'—"

"OUT."

Jon gives Martin one last doleful glance and goes.

He doesn't actually leave, of course. Melanie tries to kick him out of Breaking Grounds at least once a week, so the threat has kind of lost its bite.

Instead, he goes and sits back down in the overstuffed armchair near the window, across a coffee table from Oliver Banks. Being as Oliver Banks seems to like Breaking Grounds as much as Jon does, Jon has resigned himself to having a coffee buddy. Over the past week, he's learned that Oliver Banks is a new hire in the university's anthropology department, that he specializes in death and the afterlife, that he was recently divorced from his husband, and that he's in the city looking for a new start.

Oliver Banks also now knows everything there is to know about Jon and Martin. Which, to be fair, isn't very much. It'd be more if Melanie didn't keep glaring at Jon every time he tries to approach the counter.

"No luck?" asks Oliver Banks. He's got a few library books spread out on the low table in front of him, and a leather-bound notebook in his lap.

"Apparently he needs to 'finish his training,'" Jon sighs. "And 'deal with this rush.'"

"Ridiculous."

"I _know."_

Oliver Banks _tsk's_ sympathetically and then returns to his books. His willingness to work together in silence is one of the main reasons Jon has been willing to resign himself to having a coffee buddy.

Jon curls up in the overstuffed armchair, laptop balanced on his stomach, and tries to lose himself in his own work. The first trials are starting to run, and there's plenty on Jon's plate. It's a privilege to be the only undergrad in this lab, it really is, but right now it also means that he's got a _lot_ of data entry to slog through. Professor Lagorio has taken handwritten demographics surveys from all the participants, like it's the damn Stone Age or something, and Jon's slowly converting the manila folder into a spreadsheet, then adding the baseline fear responses they've determined so far.

Breaking Grounds is busy, but it's the kind of busy Jon likes, snatches of humanity flowing around him. At some point, Oliver Banks gathers his things and leaves, murmuring a goodbye that Jon only remembers to return after he's already been gone for five minutes. It isn't til a while later, when Jon thinks idly that Sasha could probably whip up a program to make this go much faster, that he remembers about his coffee.

He looks up to see no line—good—and Tim chattering away to Martin in a chopped-up Nirvana t-shirt and an incredibly small pair of shorts—VERY bad. Jon hurries up to the counter. The two of them break apart, Martin looking soft and beautiful in the green Breaking Grounds apron, Tim grinning wolfishly.

"Oh, hi, Jon," says Tim. "I was just telling Martin here everything about you."

"You are," Jon informs him, and Tim's grin just grows bigger, "my worst friend." 

This is categorically untrue. A brief digression: Timothy Stoker is what Jon would unkindly refer to as a _turbojock._ He does take classes, theoretically, but most of his time is occupied with rugby practice and weekend kayak trips and VIP status at his favorite local climbing gym and catching trains up to the Scottish highlands to go hiking every chance he gets. Tim is the cold brew all winter type, the brash laughter behind the counter when he’s on shift with Sasha type, the getting in Jon’s personal space type. Turbojock.

So it’s always been a vague surprise to himself that Jon likes him immensely. They've worked the same way since the two of them and Sasha were kids, causing trouble around Bournemouth: Tim's exuberance and Jon's quiet sarcasm, Tim's ironically self-aware humor and the sincere laughs it startles out of Jon. And, though Jon still struggles to admit things like this out loud, Tim's touchiness doesn't even get so much as a token annoyance out of him. A flour-dusted arm thrown over Jon's shoulders; the nuzzly affection that overflows out of Tim whenever he’s had a few; Tim drooling on his jacket sleeve on late-night Tube rides home.

Tim also, however, knows _entirely_ too much. Jon's eyes slide over to Martin, who's twisting his fingers in the hem of his apron. His gaze is lowered, but Jon recognizes the distinct amusement that shows around the lips of anyone who's been talking to Tim about Jon for a while.

"My Chemical Romance, huh," says Martin, without lifting his eyes from the countertop.

"I _hate_ you," Jon tells Tim. His voice comes out kind of strangled, and Tim starts cackling. "I just wanted a _coffee—"_

"Oh!" says Martin. "Oh, I can do that now. Um, what would you like? Sorry, I don't know anyone's usual yet—"

"No worries," Jon assures him, silently thanking God for the distraction from Jon's emo phase. "Just a medium drip coffee, please. With a few extra espresso shots in it?"

"Sure thing," says Martin. "How many?"

Jon tells him.

Martin blanches. "I—are you—are you _sure_ —that's—I—"

"Please," says Jon.

Martin gives him a distressed look, but goes to make his coffee.

Tim watches him go, and then turns back to Jon, cocking an eyebrow. "So." Jon squirms. "What I'm getting here is that I shouldn't go for it."

"I—you don't _have_ to—it's not like he and I—we aren't—" Tim's eyebrows climb higher, and Jon sighs and concedes, "If you wouldn't mind."

"All yours," Tim says. "But don't wait too long, yeah? We can't be the only ones to have noticed him."

"I'm _working on it,"_ Jon mutters.

"If it helps," Tim adds, "he was the one to ask me about you."

The main effect of this is that Jon's feeling kind of fluttery when Martin calls him over to the till.

The total is wrong. Jon frowns at it, then at Martin. "Did you add the espresso?"

"I did," Martin says, studiously avoiding Jon's eyes.

Jon does some quick calculations and arrives at what he knows is the staff discount. _"Martin."_

"Yes, Jon?"

"I am fairly certain you're not supposed to do that."

"Oh? Why not?"

"I—Melanie hasn't given me the staff discount once in the past _two years."_

"Lots of time to make up for, then."

Jon frowns at him. Martin smiles back. Finally, Jon swipes his card and dumps the difference into the tips jar. He goes to pick up his coffee—pauses.

 _He asked Tim about you,_ Jon reminds himself, and, in a fit of confidence, says, "If you're trying to flirt, there are better ways to do it than giving me hot beverages."

The surge of embarrassment follows immediately afterwards. Jon snatches up his drink and hurries back to his seat, ears burning. When he's arranged himself in the armchair again, legs dangling over one arm, he looks up to see Martin wearing that infernal green apron and a flushed smile.

"You forgot your card," he says.

"Thanks," Jon croaks.

He takes the card. Martin goes, and Jon sucks down about half his coffee in one slurp.

* * *

_October 11, 2019_

_11:16 am_

Georgie  
melanie says to tell you to stop flirting

Jon  
I'm not 'flirting.'

Georgie  
note that I'm just the messenger, I absolutely think you should keep flirting

Jon  
...Maybe I'm flirting a little bit.  
He has a little _apron_ on, Georgie.

Georgie  
?  
like the ones they're required to wear?

Jon  
Ah, you don't understand.

Georgie  
that is true.

Jon  
Do you  
Do you think I could invite him tonight

Georgie

…  
you know what? I think you should try

October yawns, stretches, and settles into a comfortable rhythm. Jon falls back into the cadence of classes and lab time, movie nights with Georgie and park picnics with Sasha. The writing for his dissertation gets to the point where he's regularly editing the Google doc on his phone in the Tesco cheese section; a comforting reminder that he does, in fact, like school.

He drinks more coffee than ever. Jon _likes_ coffee, alright, he likes the taste and the warmth and the caffeine hit and he likes Breaking Grounds and he likes working in quiet peace with Oliver Banks and—

And, yeah, Martin has a lot to do with it, yeah.

Today, the problem at hand is that the second Friday of every month is always board game night for Jon's circle of friends. Well—it isn't really a _problem,_ just that—he isn't sure if Martin has been invited. And Jon would like him to be there. He wants Martin to feel included and wanted and welcome. And Jon would _very much_ like him to be there. But he isn't hosting, so—he isn't quite sure if it's his prerogative to bring a plus one. Though, does it count as a plus one if everyone else also knows them?

"Oh, I don't think it does," Oliver Banks interjects.

Jon hadn't really intended to explain all of this to Oliver Banks. The issue is that Jon is an extrovert, and, well, Oliver Banks is there, listening and nodding and going _hmm_ at all the right points.

"Do you think anyone else attending would mind?" Oliver Banks adds. "Sincerely."

Jon considers. "I'm not always the best judge, but everyone else seems to like him well enough?" Tim and Sasha seem to get along with him on shift, and Melanie has started talking to Martin with the blunt aggression that means she likes someone very much. "I don't know if he'd even want to play Catan, though."

"You could ask," Basira suggests.

Jon nearly falls off his chair. "Wh—I— _Basira?!"_

"Yeah," says Basira. She's bent over a book at one of the nearby tables, definitely close enough to hear.

"I— _how long have you been there?!"_

"Like, an hour?" There are three empty coffee cups in front of her, and she's sipping from a fourth.

Jon makes some pathetic little noises. "H-how much did you—"

"Well, you're not quiet."

Oliver Banks looks amused, the traitor. "Friend of yours?"

"I'm Basira," says Basira, which saves Jon from figuring out whether he can refer to Basira as his friend yet or not. "Jon. Isn't the whole point of your diss figuring out ways to overcome fear?"

"Well, yes, but—that's more to do with phobias, and it's about prolonged—"

"Shh," says Basira. "Listen. There is only one thing that can really get you past fear, and that's stone cold resolve. At a certain point, just dithering around is the same as letting the fear win."

"But I'm—"

"Go ask Martin to come to board game night," Basira orders him, with a face like a wall.

Jon wilts and scuttles off towards the counter with his head low, which, in retrospect, is probably why he misses the smile that breaks over Basira's face a moment afterwards.

He talks to Martin for about five minutes, and then returns with his face hot all the way down to the collar. Behind him, Martin is giggling.

 _"You knew,"_ Jon accuses Basira.

"Mm," she says. "Got you to make a decision, though, didn't it?"

"I," says Jon, and then remembers— _"Wait, Georgie also—"_

"Really?" Basira huffs out a laugh as Jon scrambles for his phone.

Jon  
YOU KNEW.

Georgie  
you actually asked him?  
hahahahahahahahaha

Jon  
I'm revoking your best friend status.  
Im only hanging out with Sasha from now on

Georgie  
is that a typo?  
who ARE you

"I'm afraid I've missed the joke," Oliver Banks is saying to Basira.

"Board game night," says Basira, "is at Melanie's."

"Hmm? But doesn't Martin live with—ah."

"Yes," Basira agrees.

In Jon's defense, it _is_ the first board game night since Melanie started living with Martin. She'd always hosted before because she was the only one with a proper house, even one a bit out of the city.

Against Jon's defense, it probably would've always been at Melanie's anyway. Melanie, for all her aggression, glues the group of them together in a way that the rest of them have never managed, between Georgie's independence and Tim's packed schedule and Sasha's introversion and Jon's own painful awkwardness. Melanie is the type to plan nights that become legendary, the type to keep alcohol she doesn't like for the friends who do, the type to text you where the group went when you get separated, the type to remember your usual and bring you coffee when she comes round. And for all her anger, Jon can't remember her ever failing someone who needed help. She's like a prickly little hedgehog, curling up to protect its young against its soft belly.

That would make all their friends Melanie's children. Perhaps the metaphor isn't the best.

Further against Jon's defense, Melanie had also texted the group chat roughly twenty-four hours ago confirming that board game night would still be at hers.

"He asked if I wanted to walk over together after his shift, though," Jon informs Basira. "So. I've still won."

"Sure," says Basira, crackling dry, and returns to her book.

"Do you," says Jon. "Er. Do you, um."

Basira looks up. "Do I…?"

"Do you… Want to join us?" Jon gestures between himself and Oliver Banks and the empty armchair to one side of their low table.

Basira looks at him carefully.

"We don't usually talk," Jon adds.

Her face clears. "Oh, well, in that case," and then she's bringing over her backpack and book and fourth cup of coffee as Oliver Banks beams.

Jon loses himself in his own work until there's a tap on his shoulder a few hours later. He looks up to realize that the place is nearly empty, only a few people lingering over the last of their lattes and Elias behind the counter to finish closing. Martin's standing beside him with a backpack slung over one shoulder and a to-go cup in each hand, like Jon is supposed to just _resist_ that.

He takes the offered cup in both his hands, with a murmured thanks, and they head out into the afternoon. It's overcast, not in a dreary way, but in the rumbly static way that sends a shiver down Jon's angel bones. He _loves_ storms.

When he tastes what's in the cup, it gives him a moment's pause. "Is—is there any drip coffee in this at all?"

"…Maybe?"

"There definitely is not—Martin, have you brought me a cupful of espresso shots?"

"Maybe," says Martin. He glances sidelong at Jon. "Do you like it?"

"…Maybe," Jon mumbles. He takes another sip, and then another.

"Heh," says Martin, taking a long drink from his own cup. "Honestly, I was mostly curious if you'd be able to tell the difference."

"I—my usual is at _least_ half drip coffee, isn't it?"

"Jon," says Martin gently, "it is not."

"Well. Hmm. Er."

"Yes, Jon?"

"Anyway, what've you got there?" Jon nods at Martin's cup, hoping to change the subject from his own questionable caffeine habits.

"Oh, it's a steamer? Um, just steamed milk and flavor syrup—this one's raspberry—I don't like coffee."

"You don't," says Jon slowly, "like coffee."

"Yeah, it's too bitter for me, honestly, and the caffeine hits me way too hard."

"You," Jon repeats, "don't like _coffee."_

"Some people don't? I, I like sweet things—"

"But you _work at a_ —hmm?"

Martin has paused in the middle of the sidewalk and is holding his hand out in front of him, palm up. Jon glances at him and then follows his gaze up, to where the thunderheads from earlier have gone swollen and dark. The pavement in front of them is starting to speckle with dark wet droplets.

"Maybe we should—" Jon begins.

And then there's a _crack_ of thunder, and the sky breaks open.

"Oh, shit," says Martin.

Then they start running.

They'd only been about two blocks away, which is good, because Jon wouldn't have been able to run much further. When they burst into the flat, Melanie is setting up an impromptu bar on the shelf next to the sofa. She makes a noise of surprise as the pair rushes through. "Sorry, sorry—" Jon wheezes as they pass— "got caught in the storm—"

"We'll be out in a moment," Martin adds, "just grabbing clothes—"

They hurry into Martin's room, dripping on the wood floors. Martin turns on a floor lamp and a desk lamp and plugs in his fairy lights. Jon flicks the switch for the overhead light. Absolutely nothing happens.

"There were no bulbs when I moved in," Martin explains. "But I don't like the ambience of overheads anyway."

"Mm. And tell me, do you curate your Pinterest boards, too?

"I—might," Martin says, very primly. "Maybe. I—I'm going to go get towels."

Jon takes the opportunity to look around. There's still a cardboard box packed in one corner, but the room mostly looks lived-in by now. A laptop on the desk by the window, an unmade bed, shoes scattered over the floor and a pile of presumably-to-be-folded clothes on the desk chair. It's not late enough to be dark yet, but the stormclouds through the window are casting the place in dim shadow, pinpricked by the fairy lights and broken by the warmth of the lamps.

Taped around the corners of the mirror are some poems Jon doesn't recognize, and a few Polaroids. There's a mediocre shot of a sunrise, that quintessential human effort to capture something that's only ever really beautiful in transience. Some more nature shots, and a house that must be the one Martin just moved out of. The only one with a person in it is recent: Melanie, flushed with alcohol, flipping off the camera with both hands as she laughs.

Alone in the dark, Jon can hear the rain drumming down outside, and he can't help his sudden shivery smile. There's nothing like a really good storm to make him feel like things could _happen._

Martin returns with towels as Jon is pulling off his shirt. "Oh, sorry, sorry, didn't realize— _oh._ Oh—you too?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes." Jon glances down at his pecs, the two long, thin scars along the undersides. "No worries, I honestly forget about them myself sometimes."

Martin sets down the towels on his bed. He's staring at Jon's chest with poorly disguised longing. "If you don't mind me asking—how long have you…?"

"Oh, since I was quite young—my grandmother was too old-fashioned for blockers, but I started testosterone, um, around when I met Georgie? Sixteen or so? And then got surgery as soon as I was eighteen… Yourself?"

"Just recently," Martin says softly. "I—I mean, I've always _known,_ but—I only was able to start T over the summer."

Jon hums an acknowledgment that hopefully expresses _I'm happy for you_ and _I'm sad you had to wait that long_ and _I want to be delicate about having been able to start transitioning so much earlier_ all at once. They stand like that for a moment, the fairy lights gleaming off Jon's deep brown chest, Martin watching him.

Martin clears his throat. "Clothes," he says.

"Right, right, yes."

Martin doesn't have a single piece of clothing in Jon's size. "Melanie would probably have some things that fit me," Jon says absently, towel draped around his shoulders, as he roots through Martin's t-shirt drawer. They're all thin and incredibly soft.

"Oh—did you want to go ask her?"

"What? No, why?"

"Well, because—I mean, everything I own is going to be huge on you."

"Well, yes," says Jon, "but that's not a—"

And then he starts actually thinking about what he's saying, and he stares determinedly down into the t-shirt drawer and pretends he doesn't feel Martin's eyes on him and thanks every god he knows that Martin doesn't know him well enough yet to tell when his cheeks are getting hot.

 _Yet,_ Jon's brain helpfully echoes, and his stomach does a pleasant squirm.

"I'm going to go get Melanie's clothes," he manages, and flees.

Jon returns with a pair of Melanie's jeans and a t-shirt he recognizes as Georgie's, which means it was probably his at one point anyway. Martin, who has gotten dressed in the meantime, turns away out of some misguided sense of privacy—he's already seen Jon half-naked, really, what's the point—as Jon pulls the dry clothes on.

"Hmm," he mutters, examining himself in Martin's mirror. He tucks the front of the shirt in. "Fashion, I guess."

"I think this is the first time I've seen you out of sweater vests and Oxfords," Martin says.

"I—I dress well sometimes," Jon protests.

"Oh, I didn't mean it like—it suits you. The whole, er, old-fashioned academic look. You look like you could be a professor already—"

"Yes, yes, I'm greying at twenty-one, thanks for pointing that one out," Jon deadpans as he pulls the salt-and-pepper dreadlocks in question back into a ponytail.

Martin squeaks. _"I didn't say—"_

Jon turns from the mirror, feeling absolutely impish, and says, "I am teasing you, Martin K. Blackwood."

He winks at him, for good measure.

It is a miscalculation. Martin makes a frustrated sound and surges forward. Jon gasps, startled but certainly not displeased at the sudden amount of Martin in his personal space. He isn't quite _pinning_ Jon against the mirror, but—but—

Jon's tongue flicks out to wet his lips. Martin's eyes track the motion. A muscle in his forearm tenses.

"You," says Martin, sounding tormented. _"You—"_

He stops, restarts. Jon stays perfectly still.

"I'd like to touch you," Martin finally gets out.

"I'm not stopping you," Jon retorts. It's too sharp, too nervous. Martin still sucks in a ragged breath. He's trembling, his whole frame tensed towards Jon.

But he doesn't move.

"Martin," Jon whispers finally, once the thudding of his heart starts to calm down. "Do you want to go back with the rest?"

Martin shudders out a breath, nods.

As they leave, Jon reaches out and trails the pads of his fingertips up the inside of Martin's wrist. Just once.

It's the smallest thing, the slightest touch—but Jon sees the shiver work from the back of Martin's neck all the way down.

When they get back into the living room, Georgie's already there, and her eyebrows climb just about all the way up her forehead when she sees Jon emerging from Martin's room. Fortunately, she doesn't have the opportunity to grill him, because Daisy and Basira are just stepping through the front door. Daisy grabs Jon by the arm without so much as a _hello_ and tows him next door to see how much Mufasa is growing, which is a _lot,_ and then when they return to the flat Tim and Sasha have arrived with a few pizza boxes, and then there are enough _hellos_ and kisses on the cheek and _oh good lord you're soaked throughs_ to distract them all. Martin's bringing out steaming mugs of cocoa, two at a time—it's impressive that he and Melanie own eight mugs between them, honestly. Jon takes his with a quiet thanks. It has some cartoon design of a young boy and a stuffed tiger on the side.

"Do you some good, to drink something without any espresso in it," Martin tells him.

Jon rolls his eyes, but he can't hold the fondness back from the corners of his mouth as Martin moves on to trade a mug to Tim in exchange for a slice of cheese pizza and a damp, noisy hug.

Jon looks up and notices Sasha watching him. Melanie is murmuring something to her, and also watching.

Jon's stomach twists.

The living room is nearly full. Their circle has expanded recently, particularly on Melanie's end; there's Martin, for one thing, and apparently Daisy and Basira have been coming round for Game of Thrones every Sunday.

This presents a minor issue once they're all present, though: even with the six-player extension pack, they have too many people for Catan. Jon and Melanie debate for a bit—organizing board games is one of the areas where they work in perfect sync, along with deciding pizza toppings and dancing to Britney—and decide that Jon and Sasha will just play card games instead. Jon comes to board game night to see his friends, but he's never really taken to the foresight involved in playing Catan. And if Sasha sits out, someone else might win for once.

The two of them sit at the table proper while the rest of the group crowds around the coffee table and begins the prolonged process of setting up the island. Sasha shuffles and then starts dealing out the deck between the two of them. The cards are the ones with giraffes and zebras and monkeys from the London Zoo. Jon is pretty sure Melanie stole them.

"So," says Sasha.

Jon squirms.

This is why Sasha is worse than Tim: she doesn't keep pushing Jon after the first question. She just waits. And it works every _goddamned_ time. They've barely squared up their piles facedown in front of them when Jon mumbles, quiet enough for only Sasha to hear:

"I think I have a crush."

"No shit," says Sasha.

He flips his first card. Sasha flips hers—it's a double, and she slaps the stack before Jon can even move. Jon curses, focuses.

Sasha isn't quite as good at this game, between the randomness of the deck and the reliance on reflex. Which isn't to say that Jon's reflexes are spectacular either. Just that, unlike playing Sasha at, say, chess, he has an actual chance. He gets in a lucky hit on a big stack, and pulls ahead. The next table over is finally finishing placement and starting in on the game proper.

"He—" Jon pauses to watch Sasha'a card, and then continues, "I think he almost kissed me earlier."

"You were both in his room for a while," Sasha says.

"Oh, you know it wasn't like—we got caught in the storm earlier, I needed some new clothes."

"They look nice."

"Oh, these are Melanie's. Well, the t-shirt is Georgie's. Well, it's actually mine, I think— _shit!"_

Sasha sweeps up her stack, looking smug despite the truly ferocious slap Jon has just delivered to the back of her hand. He glowers at her, but continues as they keep playing.

"I—I started teasing him about something, which I think he—" Jon's voice goes a little squeaky. "I think he doesn't mind? When I tease?"

"Oh, that's convenient. For, you know, you."

"Right? And then I—er—I winked at him— _don't look at me like that, plenty of people wink_ —and he kind of—um—he—" Jon gives up and just finishes, "And he almost kissed me—I think he wanted to, but—well, I don't know. But."

"Mmhmm, mmhmm," Sasha says. "And did it make your little heart flutter?"

"You're as bad as Tim, I hope you know that," Jon grumbles.

Sasha snickers. "I'm worse."

"You are."

 _"No,"_ Georgie says in the background, strangled. "No—that's the only wheat hex better than an eleven on the _board_ right now—Basira. Basira, that hurts you as much as any of us— _why?!"_

"To test my abilities," says Basira. She plunks down the robber, and the table erupts into hollers.

The balance between Jon and Sasha shifts back and forth. Jon's almost out for a minute, but then he slaps a double that puts him fifteen cards ahead again.

"Why d'you think he didn't?" Sasha asks after a bit.

"I don't know," says Jon. "But… I don't think it was because he didn't want to. He seemed… Nervou—oh, god _damn_ you!"

"Heh," Sasha says, collecting her cards.

"You little—did you do that on _purpose?!"_ Sasha doesn't say anything, but her eyes are sparkling. "Alright, that's it, then," Jon grumbles. "No more gossip for you. We're focusing."

They focus. Catan at the other table eventually ends with a lot of shouting—something about the timber harbor and Basira's ambiguously worded trade offers. She wins, at any rate, and once it's cleaned up, the six players crowd around the card table and shout encouragement at the two of them until Jon wins by playing a completely random jack.

"Drinks now," Melanie announces. "To celebrate Sims winning at anything."

Jon settles down between Martin and Georgie, and Melanie pours him something fruity and heavy on the rum. They start playing BS, the only game anyone knows for this many people, and the evening devolves into general chaos.

The only further event of note before Jon and Georgie head home is this: Jon is leaning back on one hand as he plays, attempting to brace himself against the force of Daisy's low, furious, _"bullshit."_ And, because the flat is small and they're all kind of crowded together, that hand is mostly hidden behind Martin.

And Martin reaches back, and he rests his fingers ever-so-briefly in the spaces between Jon's.

It's the smallest touch. Just a flutter, just once. And then it's gone.

It wouldn't be anything—Jon has brushed the hands of strangers on the street and touched them for longer.

But Martin was the one to reach out first, and so, the whole way home, Jon is grinning.

* * *

_October 20, 2019_

_9:30 am_

Melanie  
i hate you

Jon  
Thanks. Why?

Melanie  
Martin is the least productive employee we have right now  
and I KNOW it's not his fault

Jon  
Oh, come now, it's not like Elias cares.

Melanie  
I CARE  
i like working here!  
i like working with my friends  
i like saying whatever shit i want to customers  
and elias didn't even notice when i gave us all raises last month  
but you know what we need to have the money for those raises  
employees who aren't flirting every second they're on the clock

Jon  
Tim does that too!

Melanie  
he flirts with CUSTOMERS it's DIFFERENT

Jon  
I'm a customer.

Melanie  
not if i kick you out right now you're not

Jon  
I'm not even _there_ right now!

It's not technically a lie. As he sends the text, he's still on the sidewalk outside the place. And anyway, Melanie doesn't even work Sunday mornings.

Melanie  
also  
if you hurt him  
i will kill you

Jon  
Of course.

Melanie not working means Elias is probably there. There's another shift supervisor—Rosie—but she only works once or twice a week, and it's usually during Jon's morning classes, so Jon doesn't see her much. Sure enough, when he steps up to the counter:

"Hello," Elias says, looking vitriolic in his little green apron.

Jon requests his usual through a huge yawn. Elias just nods. He likes to pretend he doesn't recognize Jon most of the time, but Jon isn't fooled; Elias always starts pulling espresso shots the second Jon walks through the door. Sasha rings him up with a little, "hey, you," but no employee discount under Elias' watchful eye. Elias takes it out on his employees when Jon does try to chat, so Jon just takes his coffee back to his favorite overstuffed armchair and settles in.

The shop is awash with customers murmuring, the periodic hiss of the espresso machine, and Elias' and Sasha's voices occasionally calling out the lattes and cappuccinos. No Oliver Banks to talk to this morning, no Martin to—he can admit it to himself—distract. Just the warmth of his laptop on his thighs, and the enveloping embrace of the overstuffed armchair. Jon has always loved this particular chair—it's deep enough and he's slight enough that he can sink into it, nearly disappearing in its crannies.

 _Just a few minutes,_ he tells himself as he closes his laptop and rests his head against the chair back.

(He doesn't even bother making it a good lie.)

When Jon drifts back into wakefulness, it's to quiet, mostly tuneless singing. Something sweet and a little bit wistful.

He stays still for a few moments, blinking away sleepy cobwebs and the winding wisps of dreams. The shop is mostly quiet. It's also very fuzzy— _had Jon taken off his glasses?_

He fumbles for them on the table. As he does, something falls half-off him, and he also realizes he's _warm._

Jon, as a general rule, does not run warm. His bed in his and Georgie's flat is piled high with fleece, a weighted blanket, and multiple duvets. The few times he's woken up in Breaking Grounds before, to an unceremonious shake from Melanie or a poke to the side from Sasha or a disgusting sloppy kiss on the cheek from Tim, he's been shivering.

Jon puts on his glasses, and several things come into focus: his coffee cup, replaced with a cup of water; the shop, almost entirely empty; a thick, cream-colored flannel, draped over the entirety of Jon's curled-up frame and smelling of cinnamon. And Martin K. Blackwood, sweeping slowly in the long sunlight through the front windows, singing to himself.

The song trails off somewhere near the chorus as Martin hears Jon move. "Good morning, sleepyhead," he calls across the shop. The words float like dust motes in the still sunlight.

"Morning," Jon tries to say, but it comes out as a rasp. He reaches for the cup of water, and discovers that it also has ice and a little slice of lemon. _God._ He drinks, clears his throat, tries again. "Good morning. Er, afternoon."

"Wild night last night, was it?"

"What? No—why?"

"You slept through my entire shift," Martin tells him. "We're closed, actually—I was just letting you sleep while I cleaned up. The shop's only open till four."

"I know how late Breaking Grounds is open," Jon says, indignant. "And yes, I'll have you know Georgie kept me up _very_ late watching all the Pirates of the Caribbean movies."

Martin laughs at him. The late-afternoon sun is glowing in his cheeks and bright in his eyes. It’s possible that Jon has never been so attracted to someone. Martin heads to the counter, talking as he goes. "I told Elias I'd finish up alone—you just missed him, actually."

"Pity," Jon says.

"Mm, I think he'd have taken any chance to leave anyway. Really, I don't know what life circumstances led a fifty-year-old man to be managing a coffee shop unwillingly."

"He doesn't even own the place," Jon tells him, sharing what little gossip he knows. "It's some guy named Jonah. But nobody I know here has ever met him, and Melanie's been here two years now."

"Well, if he's anything like Elias, good riddance." Martin rattles around a little behind the counter. "Want a muffin? They expire after today anyway, and Sasha said you didn't have lunch."

"Cranberry orange, if there's any? I think they're Tim's best." Tim does most of the baking for the little pastry case by the till; Elias refuses to bring in anything frozen, which is actually probably the decision of his that Jon respects the most. "Have you noticed, he always keeps his work clothes on for a while after his shifts? Just so he keeps smelling like baked goods."

"What, really? Though I guess I'm not surprised."

"Yeah, I think he knows it's appealing."

As he talks, Jon shrugs on the cream-colored flannel. It is massive on him. He pushes up the cuffs to his elbows, and the sleeves still fall around and nearly down to his wrists. Jon snuggles down into it, delighted.

Martin stays behind the counter for a few minutes and then brings out a little plate with the muffin, steaming warm, and a small knife with a pat of butter. His steps stutter when he sees Jon, and even after he puts the little plate down on the table, his eyes don't move from his flannel around Jon's shoulders. His gaze is heavy.

"Thank you," Jon murmurs, pretending a shiver hasn't just raced down his angel bones.

"Course," says Martin. "I'll—I'll just, um—"

He gestures vaguely at the rest of the shop and hurries away.

Jon spreads the butter on the cranberry-orange muffin and scarfs it down; it's right on the edge of going stale, but still delicious. He hadn't realized quite how hungry he's been. Martin finishes sweeping and spends a while behind the counter: washing dishes, draining the coffee urns, emptying the pastry case into the fridge, the like. Jon finishes his water and reluctantly unfolds himself from the overstuffed armchair to bring his dishes to the counter. While Martin finishes up, Jon packs his laptop into his messenger bag, opens Instagram, likes all Daisy's latest pictures of Mufasa, closes Instagram.

The lights click off, leaving the shop in just the sun. Martin emerges from behind the counter, apronless and shrugging on a backpack. "Ready?"

"Mmhmm." Jon stands and moves to follow him.

"Charger," Martin adds.

"Hmm? Ah." Jon unplugs his phone charger and drops it into his bag. "Thanks."

They leave Breaking Grounds silent and sun-cast. "How'd you get so good at taking care of people, hmm?" Jon asks as Martin locks up.

Martin shoves the keys into his pocket. He is quiet for a moment.

"My mum," he says as they start walking.

"Mm?"

"She's, uh. She just moved into a home, but—she's sick." The words come slow. Jon watches Martin carefully. "She has been since I was… Eight? My dad left not long after we found out, so—I mean, we didn't have the money for a carer—it wasn't that bad," he adds, just a little defensive. Like he knows these arguments by heart. "It's what you do, for family."

"Still," Jon murmurs. He isn't the most perceptive on the best of days, but even he can hear the years of strain under Martin's voice. "It shouldn't have been your job."

Martin shrugs, hunches over as he walks. "Doesn't matter now anyway." A clear lie, but Jon doesn't push it. Martin glances down at him, mouth quirking up. "S'nice, though, for someone to not mind it when I fuss over them."

Jon nods vehemently, wrapping himself tighter in the flannel.

"I'm not getting that back, am I," Martin sighs.

"Not a chance."

Martin does not seem to be as put out by this as he could be. "It's not even proper cold out, how d'you make it through the winters?"

"I befriended Tim," Jon grumbles. "And I stay inside. What, are you a winter person?" He doesn't quite manage to hide his faint disgust at the concept.

"I'm an autumn person," says Martin. "Flannels. Hot cider."

"Dying things."

"Yeah."

"Hmm," Jon says. "What's your favorite color?"

"Yellow—what is this, twenty questions?" Martin is smiling, though.

"It could be," says Jon, feeling indulgent. Jon is a curious creature in general, curious about Martin in particular. "In which case, it's your turn."

"Mm… Favorite pair of shoes."

"Docs. Though I don't have a chance to wear them much." 

Martin looks like he's thinking very hard about something, so Jon adds, "Worst pet peeve."

 _"Nobody,"_ says Martin, "who comes into Breaking Grounds ever says please."

"I—I say please," Jon protests, suddenly nervous. He does say please—doesn't he?

"Oh, well, that's _you,_ though."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, you're—" Martin does the verbal equivalent of skidding to a stop and tripping a few times. Jon snickers at him, and Martin mutters, "Ask a _question."_

"Mm," says Jon, feeling bold. "You've mentioned that Tim isn't your type, so—what is?"

"Pretty," Martin answers immediately. Then he blinks, looking mildly mortified. "I—I mean—I don't mean in a feminine way, just—Tim's so masc, y'know? I like nice bone structure, I guess—"

"Bone structure," Jon repeats. Martin makes a little distressed noise at him. Jon's having such a good day. "And people teasing you, you find that attractive too, hmm?"

 _"I,"_ says Martin, and then covers his face in his hands completely. "Shut—please— _why do you do this."_

"Is that your question?"

 _"No_ —favorite weather?"

"Storms, obviously. Do you believe in ghosts?"

"What—I mean, no, of course not."

"Hmm," says Jon.

"D-do _you?"_

"No. Maybe."

"Then— _maybe."_

They're quiet for a second, and then Martin says, "Yes."

"Yes."

"Definitely."

"Yeah."

"Anyway. Greatest fear?"

"Pass."

They pass through a patch of green that could generously be called a park. Jon tilts his head towards one of the benches and Martin makes a noise of agreement, so they sit to watch the afternoon drift by. If it were Tim or Georgie, Jon would probably snuggle into their side, resting his head on their shoulder and leeching up all the body heat he can get.

He's pretty sure he isn't at that point with Martin yet, being as he's known him for roughly a month as opposed to five years (Georgie) or sixteen (Tim). But he does fuss with the flannel until he feels an adequate degree of totally enveloped. Martin is watching him. Jon… Doesn't mind, actually. Martin watches him a lot, and he hasn't yet found himself minding it.

"Maybe spiders," Jon says.

"What—really? They're harmless, you know, and so good for the ecosystem-"

Jon looks at him.

"Alright, alright." Martin raises his hands in surrender. "Your turn."

"Yes. Cats or dogs?"

"Dogs," says Martin, "but, both, really."

"Hmm. I suppose that's acceptable."

"Smartest person you know?"

"Smartest is Sasha, wisest is Melanie. Favorite poem?"

 _"Well,"_ says Martin.

"Oh?"

He's already pulling out his phone. "I—I actually have a collection." Jon leans in to watch as Martin opens a Google doc with the simple title _poems._ "D'you want a newer one or a classic?"

"Mm, can't go wrong with a classic."

Martin scrolls, and Jon waits for a moment. And then Martin stops somewhere and looks at Jon expectantly—and Jon looks back equally expectantly—and they both realize at the same time:

"Oh—oh, did you want me to—"

"Sorry, I thought you were going to—"

"I can-"

"No, no, I'll just—"

After a bit more fussing, Martin starts reading out loud. (Well, more like _reciting._ He isn't even really looking at the screen.) _"Do not stand at my grave and weep,"_ he begins. _"I am not there. I do not sleep."_

Jon looks out at London and listens to Martin speak softly. When he finishes, Jon asks quietly to hear another. And then Martin is telling him about the lunch periods he used to spend reading Keats in the back corner of the school library, and the poems he used to copy down and tape up on the wall next to his pillow so he could reread them as he went to sleep, and the first open mic he ever went to, a deeply closeted seventeen-year-old hunched over in the back row, watching emotion become raw, sharp static in the tiny bookstore's microphone.

And Jon listens. He is building a picture in his head, a half-defined, still-fuzzy image of Martin K. Blackwood. There is always a choice: a conscious decision to know, to be known. Not a fall, not a trip or a stumble, but a path chosen with eyes wide open. A spark, kindled. An impulse, pursued.

As the afternoon fades towards grey dusk and they leave the bench behind to start wandering homeward again, Martin abruptly laughs a self-deprecating laugh and says, "Sorry, I'm just rambling about myself now, aren't I?"

"Yes," Jon says. "Do it more."

"I—you can't just _say_ things like that, Jon, _geez—_

"Things like…?" Jon inquires.

Martin sighs very deeply. "You know _exactly_ what I mean, _Jon."_

"Mm, it's still fun, though."

"It is," Martin says primly, _"my turn to ask a question."_

"Well, don't let me stop you."

"Favorite song."

_"Well."_

"Oh?"

He's already pulling out his phone, untangling his earbuds and swiping away the pocket lint. "You definitely wouldn't have heard of them, but-"

"Oh, that's such a _hipster_ thing to—"

"Clans?"

Martin refuses to meet his eyes, and Jon raises an eyebrow. "Didn't think so."

"Play me the _song,"_ Martin grumbles.

He pops one earbud in and Jon puts in the other, and then there's something gentle and soft playing over the low-quality earbuds. _Black soul, white feathers._ The wire keeps tugging at Jon's ear as he walks, though, and he shifts a little closer to Martin—to make up for it, you understand.

Jon's music taste varies wildly, from a pop punk phase that never really ended to nineties bubblegum to experimental EDM. Lately, it's been more lowkey. A symptom of him finally calming down a bit, maybe, now that he's made it to a ripe old twenty-one.

(Oh, Jon is well aware that he's young, despite his speech patterns and fashion sense and premature graying. But he's also older than he's ever been before. And there's no anticipating what's to come, not really; only the past playing out behind him, with all the shifts and ripples in the person he's been before. And maybe the person he's been before is turning into a person who likes calm music.)

Martin's hand keeps brushing his. More often than is statistically likely, given the seven-odd inches of height between them. Jon glances up and sideways briefly, but if Martin is doing it consciously, he's not acknowledging it, just looking ahead.

But then, just once, Martin's fingers half-curl around Jon's palm, and then let go.

"Are you close with your mum?" Jon asks, once the song ends and he reclaims his earbuds.

"Pass," Martin says quietly.

Martin's hand bumps his again, and this time, Jon catches it.

Martin looks surprised, which is really rather rich, given that he's been dancing around this since they left the shop. Jon squeezes his hand briefly anyways, and presses his thumb into Martin's palm for a moment.

"Favorite smell?" he asks, to distract Martin from the thoughts that are starting to cloud over his face.

"You're going to laugh," Martin tells him, with absolute certainty.

"No," says Jon. "Never."

"Hmm," says Martin suspiciously, but he continues, "Lemongrass."

"Oh, that's not—"

"But only the cleaning products," he continues. "I used to try to eat wood polish, like, all the time— _you said you wouldn't laugh."_

"I'm _trying_ not to—alright, alright, your turn."

 _"Least_ favorite smell."

"Petrol—it makes me hungry."

"Oh, but you'll make fun of _me_ for—"

They meander back in the vague direction of Jon and Georgie's flat, hand in hand.

When they finally turn onto Jon's block, the streetlamps are just starting to flick on. Martin pauses in the light of the one by Jon and Georgie's door. His sentence trails off, and Jon, who's fiddling with their intertwined fingers, stops too.

"Do, um," Martin says. "Do you want. Uh. Can I."

"Yeah?" Jon murmurs.

Martin darts forward and presses a quick kiss to Jon's cheek, lips dry and warm 

And then he's gone, hurrying off into the grey-gold twilight.

Jon goes inside and collapses backwards onto his bed, and grins up at the ceiling.

Georgie finds him like that when she comes in looking for gossip a few minutes later. She raises an eyebrow at the flannel. _"That's_ not yours."

"I think it might be now."

The bed dips down as she sits next to him, cross-legged. "You know he's, like, definitely into you, right?"

"Mm, I'm not _that_ dense," Jon says. Georgie makes a noncommittal noise. "Oh, hush, you." Jon squirms around a little to rest his cheek on her thigh. "It's just—I mean—I'm not in any rush, you know?"

"Honestly, I don't." Georgie twirls one of his dreads around her index finger.

"Well… I guess it's that I want to enjoy every part of this." Jon closes his eyes, still smiling. "Some things are worth savoring."

"Jon," says Georgie. "Am I watching you fall—"

"Don't say it," Jon whispers. "Don't say it out loud yet."

Georgie's probably giving him a questioning look. He keeps his eyes tight shut.

"I—I don't want to jinx it," Jon adds, which isn't at all what he meant. He braces himself for the teasing.

But Georgie knows him way too well for that, well enough to hear the vague wordless fear of having something like _hope,_ and she agrees, "All right."

Jon turns to press his cheek into her hand, a silent _thank you,_ and then lets himself drift back into daydreams that smell like cinnamon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/medeawasright/status/1238792265826525186?s=19) [tumblr](https://dicaeopolis.tumblr.com/post/612563898100596736) [betsy](http://www.twitter.com/owlinaminor)


	4. Georgie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's a fluff fic without a sleepover chapter?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pasta supper is something that can actually be so intimate
> 
> suggested listening: yada yada (anderson .paak), god in jeans (ryan beatty)

_ Name: _ Georgie Barker  
_ Usual: _ Dark roast, one sugar  
_ Statement taken November 5th, 2019, 20:37. Location: Flat of Georgie Barker and Jonathan Sims, London. _

Once or twice a year, Georgie comes home with a bottle of black nail polish and a slightly wild look in her eyes and announces to Jon that it’s time to rediscover their emo phases. Once or twice a year, she and Jon both fail to remember that there's a third member of their household now, and they always end up cursing over a bottle of nail polish remover in the bathroom, strands and tufts of cat hair clinging to their half-dry fingers.

"I hate your cat," Jon grumbles into the sink. It isn't going well. The polish hasn't dried fully yet, and the remover is mostly just smearing it around, getting it stuck in his cuticles. The cat hair, naturally, is coming off stickily, if at all.

_ "Our _ cat," Georgie counters. She wets yet another paper towel with the remover, frowning down at her own hands.

"Not right now, he isn't."

"Oh, so he's  _ our _ cat when you want to put him all over your Instagram—"

The offending animal purrs his way into the bathroom and winds around their ankles. Jon reaches down to scritch his head on instinct, and then starts cursing again, louder, as his fingers get furred anew. There's also now a couple spots of black on the cat's forehead.

Georgie, unfortunately, notices. "Did you just nail polish my cat?!"

_ "O-our cat!" _

So, that's Tuesday night.

The house rule is no schoolwork after eight o'clock. They'd had to put it into place around four A.M. on one November night during their second year, when Jon had looked at Georgie and Georgie looked at Jon and it hit that neither of them had spent more than twenty minutes away from their books all week. It's taken almost the full year, but Jonathan Sims, workaholic, is slowly starting to discover things like  _ hobbies _ and  _ free time _ again.

Also, the Lord of the Rings Extended Editions on DVD that he apparently had at his grandmother’s place. He discovered those, too.

So, Jon microwaves popcorn and Georgie pours them each a glass of boxed wine, and they settle down on the sofa in front of  _ The Two Towers _ with a thick blanket and the full intent of falling asleep there. The Admiral, fully forgiven for his fur crimes, walks over all the soft, painful bits of Jon’s lap before settling in between the two of them. If not for the slight paint-thinner smell, the incident could’ve never happened at all.

Georgie is tense next to him, shoulders stiff and sitting straight up instead of her usual sprawl, in a way that seems like it might be about a little more than nail polish. Jon doesn’t ask, though. If Georgie wants to talk, she will, and if she doesn’t, pushing her to talk before she’s ready will make things exponentially worse. (One of those things that, incidentally, Jon didn’t figure out until  _ after _ it’d contributed to the end of their relationship.)

Sure enough, about halfway through the film, Georgie says, “Melanie wants to be official.”

Jon blinks and offers the eloquent support of a longtime best friend, which is, “Huh?”

“Yeah.”

This is about as much as Georgie ever likes to talk about her feelings. Jon lets her get away with it sometimes, but, in this case—“Do  _ you _ want to be?”

Georgie gets up, Admiral purring against her shoulder, and starts walking back and forth. Her face is utterly blank. She keeps passing in front of the TV, blocking out Helm’s Deep; as subtly as he can, Jon pauses the film.

“I mean, it’s not like I’m having sex with anyone else,” she says finally.

“There’s a lot more to it than that,” Jon murmurs.

Georgie rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah,  _ you. _ Are  _ you _ guys even official, or did you just skip straight to the honeymoon phase?”

“I’m  _ working on it _ —don’t avoid the question!”

“I don’t—” Georgie breathes out. “I don’t know. I like us, I like us like this—why should we have to change?”

“She wants it to change,” Jon points out. He isn’t making arguments, not really, just acting as a sounding board. It is a peculiarity of Georgie, this need for another person to vocalize what she already knows.

“Yeah. Yeah.” Georgie lets the Admiral drop to the floor and sits down on the coffee table. She picks up Jon’s glass of wine and takes a deep drink. “Jon. I’m not scared of anything, you know that?”

“Mmhmm?”

“I’d be useless in your lab—there’s nothing that  _ really  _ freaks me out, cause there’s nothing I couldn’t weather. I could lose Melanie and still keep on living. I could lose  _ you, _ and it’d be hell but I  _ would _ survive. There isn’t a single person on earth I really  _ need. _ Does that sound like relationship material to—I mean, you of all people would  _ know.” _

Jon waves this last part off. “Oh, our relationship never  _ ended, _ it just changed shape.” There had been an awkward month, and then Jon had ventured a weak joke about how there’s usually a mutual exchange of each other’s stuff and yet Georgie won’t give him back any of his t-shirts, and then Georgie had rolled her eyes and they were friends again. “Besides, it’s—I don’t think you have to  _ need _ commitment. You can still want it.”

“How d’you mean?” Georgie shoves a fistful of popcorn into her mouth. Neither of them is looking at the other: the truest hallmark of their emotional conversations.

“Do you want to call her your girlfriend?” Jon pauses, and, when there’s no response, adds, “Do you want to hold her hand when you walk together? Buy her nice things on Valentine’s Day? Stay the night?”

“I don’t know,” Georgie whispers. “It’s—it sounds so easy, when you say it like that.”

She pauses.

“But,” Jon supplies.

“But. If I stay the night once or twice, what happens if I forget how to stop? If I walk with her now, what if, afterwards, I don’t know how to walk alone?”

“Georgie,” says Jon. “There’s—I told you about the four fear responses, right? Psychologically speaking?”

Georgie grimaces. “Remind me.” She doesn’t tend to absorb much of Jon’s psychobabble.

“Well, there’s fight or flight; people know those two. But first, before that: there’s freezing up in response to a potential threat. And then after it, there’s the fright phase, when you’re too paralyzed by fear to respond to the threat at all.”

“And?”

“It’s all fear, Georgie,” Jon says softly. “Avoiding terrifying things, staying still instead of responding to the world—it’s all just different kinds of fear. If you hold fast against a current, if you resist it with all you’ve got, it’s no different than if you were actively pushing backwards. It’ll still pass by, no matter how little you move.”

Georgie studies him, brown eyes piercing. “You telling me to stop being a coward?”

Jon makes a noncommittal-noise-furrowed-brow-hand-wavy gesture.

“Ha, ha. Alright, alright.” She blows out a long breath and rejoins him on the sofa. There’s tension in her shoulders, and Jon knows better than to touch her. “Okay, I want to see if the Riders of Rohan come back.”

“Georgie,” says Jon, “we have seen  _ The Two Towers _ fourteen times.”

“Play the  _ film, _ Sims.” Which, only Melanie ever calls him that, so Jon raises an eyebrow at her. She swats him upside the head.  _ “Play the film.” _

The Riders of Rohan come back, and when that’s done, Georgie says, “I might be gone most of the weekend.”

“What am I supposed to do with my Saturday night if we’re aren’t watching  _ Return of the King?” _

“Oh, text  _ Martin _ or something. I have to go get laid.”

“And stay the night?”

Jon had meant it as a reminder, but his voice lifts into a question.

“You know,” says Georgie, thoughtful, “I think I just might.”

* * *

_ November 7, 2019  
_ _ 2:03 p.m. _

Martin  
Um. So I know this is kind of out of the blue, but…  
Your roommate is kind of sexiling me? I think?  
Well, Melanie said it was probably going to be a loud weekend…  
I guess I'm asking if, uh. Do you know if there's anywhere I could stay on Saturday night?  
I know it's last-minute, sorry! I could also probably ask Tim and Sasha…  
Basira and Daisy's place is probably too close.  
I just figured, since your flat is going to have a vacancy for the weekend, haha.  
Oh, I never actually specifically asked, did I.  
I  
Actually, just pretend I didn't say anything?  
Yeah

Jon  
Sorry, I was in the lab, what's going on?

Martin  
Nothing!

Jon  
Oh, I see.  
This weekend, hmm…

Martin  
Only if you don't have other plans!!!

Jon  
Georgie is busy; why would I?  
Yes, that'll be fine.

Martin  
Thank you!!!!!!!  
Honestly, it's such bad timing, I'm going to visit my mum next weekend anyway, but apparently it _had_ to be now.

Jon  
Yes, they're rather, er, like that.

Martin arrives around four p.m. on Saturday. It's actually the first time he's been round, between all the time Jon spends at Breaking Grounds and their social circle's tendency to congregate at Melanie's. Jon is slightly nervous, which he expresses by waking up at one, cleaning in semi-random bursts in his pajamas until three, remembering to eat, and then tormenting the Admiral with a laser pointer for a fidgety hour until the doorbell buzzes. He startles to his feet at that and goes to buzz Martin in, feeling unreasonably fluttery.

He needn't have worried. When Martin arrives, in a deep green sweater with the sleeves pushed up that immediately takes up about fifty percent of Jon’s brain capacity, he’s carrying a bag of groceries and a bottle of wine, which he immediately sets down to coo over the Admiral at length, and  _ that _ pleases Jon so much that he starts bragging about his cat, and then it's been fifteen minutes and Martin is still kneeling in the entryway with his shoes on.

"Oh—I should, er, let you in."

Martin smiles wryly up at him and goes to untie his shoes. "Yes, that might be useful."

They bring the bags to the kitchen. Jon glances around, suddenly self-conscious, though he  _ really _ shouldn't be, considering Melanie's Spartan cooking situation. It’s not a  _ barren _ kitchen; there’s a kettle, a rice cooker, a microwave, a dish towel hanging from a hook. But, well, they’re students. They don’t have things like, say, a toaster. Should Jon have a toaster? It seems very suddenly important for him to have a toaster. He is distracted from this burgeoning spiral by catching sight of the calendar on the fridge, which reminds him— "Oh, you said you're going to see your mum next weekend?"

"Yeah—oh, are you—wait, really?"

"How else am I supposed to keep track of what everyone's doing?" Jon finishes penciling it into the calendar, and then notices what's written for the following Friday. "You'll be back for Sasha's birthday, though?"

"Well, yeah, of course."

Martin examines the calendar for a moment longer, then turns to Jon and gathers him up in a sudden warm hug. Jon gasps in surprise as he's nearly lifted off his feet, but he hugs back, enjoying the feeling of Martin's face pressed into his shoulder.

"Alright there?" he asks when Martin releases him.

"Yeah," Martin sighs, smiling. Then the smile dissolves. "I mean—only if—was that, uh, okay—?"

Jon rolls his eyes and grabs Martin's hand before he can overthink it anymore.

"Um," says Martin. "Is that a y—"

_ "Yes, _ Martin." It's a nice novelty, having someone around more nervous than himself. "Show me what you've brought."

"Right, right, yes."

Martin empties the bag onto the kitchen counter one-handed. Besides the wine, there's a box of penne and a jar of tomato sauce and parmesan cheese and sausage and an onion and a bag salad and frozen garlic bread and brownie mix.

"Good lord," Jon mumbles.

"I—you're doing me a favor! I'm grateful."

"I'm not  _ complaining." _ Eating this well is rare. Jon is an alright cook if he makes the effort, but that's a very big  _ if. _ "How can I help?"

"You can make the brownies," Martin tells him. "You're gonna need this, though." He squeezes Jon's hand.

"Hmm," says Jon. "Suppose I will."

Neither of them lets go even a little bit.

Finally, Jon sighs and releases him. "Oh, alright, alright."

He pretends not to notice Martin's ridiculous smile as he starts finding eggs and oil.

The brownies are in the oven fairly quickly. Afterwards, Jon perches on the counter next to the stove with the bowl and a scraper to clean it out thoroughly. Midway through, he remembers his manners and offers the batter-coated scraper to Martin, who's slowly stirring the sauce.

Martin takes it, looks at Jon, looks at the scraper, looks at Jon, licks it clean. Jon accepts the scraper back and goes to work on the bowl again.

"Eheh," says Martin. "It's, uh, it's, um. Almost like, uh. An indirect, er. Um."

_ "I'm _ not going to say it," Jon drawls, dry as the Sahara.

"An indirect," Martin tries again, and then starts giggling. "I—alright, I can't do it, I'm just too old for that now."

"You  _ are _ old," Jon agrees. He leans over, putting one hand on Martin’s shoulder to stabilize himself, and nabs a sausage from the saucepan. "Practically mummified already." The sausage burns his tongue, and he curses quietly as he sits back.

_ "Oi." _ Martin points the wooden spoon at him. A little tomato sauce drips onto the stovetop and sizzles. "I can't be more than a year older than you—when's your birthday?"

"End of August, yours?"

"Beginning of May…"

_ "Heh," _ says Jon. As an afterthought, he adds, "Tell me the exact date when I'm not on the counter, I need to add it to the calendar—"

Martin puts down the spoon and hugs Jon again.

Jon returns the hug, albeit slightly surprised. "Oh—hey, hey, you alright?"

"Mmhmm," Martin tells Jon's shoulder. He lingers for a moment, and then goes back to the pan, glancing over at the calendar on the fridge as he stirs. “Bournemouth next weekend, then?”

"Hm? Oh, yes, Tim and Sasha and I go home around now every year."

"Oh, family things?"

"It's Tim's brother’s birthday." Jon hops off the counter and glances around for his Bluetooth speaker. "I'll put the salad together, do you want music?”

“Mmhmm. Clans?”

“See, I told you they were good.”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

By the time Martin pronounces the pasta done and starts dishing up plates, Jon has made the salad, and taken the brownies out, and put the garlic bread in, and taken the garlic bread out, and the way it smells in the kitchen is driving him moderately berserk. Is Martin the kind of person who insists on sitting down before anyone eats anything? He might be that kind of person. There’s only one way to find out, Jon decides, and reaches for a piece of garlic bread.

Martin swats him lightly on the hand without even looking away from the plates. “You stop that.”

“It smells good,” Jon protests.

“You’re going to burn your tongue!” Martin hands him a pair of plates. “Bring that to the table, and we’ll be able to eat sooner.”

Jon grumbles, and swipes a piece of pasta from one of the plates as he goes anyway.

“I saw that,” Martin singsongs behind him.

Jon and Georgie usually eat on the sofa, but then again, Jon and Georgie usually eat the lowest-effort meals they can possibly concoct. This feels special. And they do have a table, covered as it may be in stacks of books and junk mail and Georgie’s knitting. Jon clears it off and puts out napkins and silverware, like he’s a real adult and everything, and then helps bring in the rest of the food, two glasses of wine. Martin pauses next to him, and they survey the table for a moment.

Jon… Can’t actually remember the last time he made something with his hands, besides bare-minimum cooking. He isn’t much for crafting—he doesn’t even write on paper anymore. There is something quietly satisfying about seeing their work spread out before them: two full plates laid out across from each other, steam curling up from the pasta sauce. He catches hold of Martin’s hand, squeezes it briefly. “Thank you.”

Martin glances down at him, mouth quirking in a smile. “Thank  _ you.” _

They sit down across from one another and eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, savoring.

After a bit, Martin finishes his pasta and starts on the salad. Between bites, he asks, “What d’you want to do after dinner?”

Jon swallows his mouthful and thinks. "Hmm." Usually he and Georgie spend their free Saturday nights teaching themselves the choreography for pop hits from the mid-2000s, but there are things Martin doesn't need to know yet. "What's your favorite film?"

_ “Dead Poets’ Society.” _ Jon tries to hide his reaction to that. Judging by Martin’s offended look, he fails. “What, what’s wrong with _ Dead Poets’ Society?” _

“No, no, it’s a good film, it’s just—very, er, on-brand.”

Martin frowns down at him, suspicious. “Elaborate on that?”

“Well,” says Jon. “Hmm. I believe the word is  _ hipster.” _

_ “I’m _ a hipster? Remember when I asked you your favorite band and you said I’ve probably never heard of them?”

“You  _ hadn’t  _ heard of them,” Jon huffs. “Besides, you’re worse than me—you’ve got a bunch of Polaroids and John Masefield poems taped to your mirror.”

“John Masefield is  _ good—” _

“Now, now, I’m not saying  _ Dead Poets’ Society _ isn’t.”

_ “You _ said it was hipster.”

“Mm, so it’d be rather hypocritical of me to criticize it, hmm?”

“…True,” Martin allows.

“Watch  _ Dead Poets’ Society _ with me, Martin,” says Jon.

Martin frowns for a moment longer, and then gives in, smile breaking over his face. “Alright, alright.” Jon takes another bite to hide his own satisfaction. “I brought a few blankets, I'll set up on the couch after we're done."

"…Oh," says Jon, and nibbles on his slice of garlic bread.  _ Hmm. _

"Uh—" Martin shifts a bit. "If—if that's alright?"

"Well—I mean, of course that's alright, if it's what you'd prefer, but—I was thinking, we could—well, my bed is queen-sized—only if you'd like?"

_ "Oh," _ says Martin.

Jon glances up from under his lashes, searching Martin's eyes—soft and brown and impossibly gentle—as Martin searches his. "I mean, you don't have to."

"No—I'd like to."

Jon smiles. "Yeah?"

_ "Yeah." _ Martin tilts his head, smile soft. "We're really doing this, aren't we?"

"I rather think we have been." Jon scoops up his last bite of pasta, feeling the lazy satisfaction of a full stomach start to settle over him.

"I—I wasn't fully sure," Martin confesses.

"Really? I think I've been pretty obvious—when did you figure it out?"

"Um. Just now."

Jon drops his fork.  _ "Really?!" _

Martin laughs a self-deprecating laugh, absolutely no humor in it. "Well, I mean, how was I supposed to—half the people we  _ know _ act like they're dating you!'

"What the fuck," says Jon.

"Oh, come  _ on! _ Tim's all over you, you and Georgie are joined at the hip, Melanie gave me a  _ shovel talk _ about you—"

"She gave  _ me _ a shovel talk about  _ you!" _

"Oh," says Martin. "Oh. Oh—really?"

_ "Yes. _ Very much so." Martin is smiling a ridiculously pleased little smile down at his empty plate, and Jon’s chest squeezes. To make it explicitly clear, he adds, "I am not dating any of our friends. Not even a little bit."

"There's pictures of you and Georgie kissing on your Instagram," Martin mumbles without removing his eyes from his plate.

"From  _ two years ago _ —Martin, how far back—"

"Not important," Martin interrupts very quickly.

Jon cocks an eyebrow. Martin goes flushed faster than Jon would've honestly thought possible for a human. Jon smirks at him for good measure, and Martin buries his face in his hands.

_ "Why," _ says Martin, muffled and plaintive.

"Why…?" Jon prompts. He feels kind of heady.

"Why do you  _ tease me like this," _ Martin whines, removing his face from his hands.

"Do you not enjoy it?" Jon inquires. Martin makes another strangled noise, and an outright laugh bubbles up from Jon's chest. "Let me flirt in peace."

"I—I'm trying to flirt with  _ you!" _

Jon smiles at him, feeling dangerously giddy. "By deep liking pictures of me with my ex-girlfriend, yes, thank you."

"You're  _ awful," _ Martin sighs.

Jon hums in agreement. He takes Martin's hand in both his and lifts it to his lips, kissing idly at each fingertip, each freckle and mole, the pulse point in Martin’s wrist.

"So," Martin begins. He pauses, swallows—pulls his hand back. "Okay, okay—you're—you're distracting me."

"Yes," says Jon, but he obligingly folds his hands in his lap. "So."

"So," Martin says, resolute, though his eyes dart to Jon's hands before he catches himself. "You aren't dating Georgie."

"I'm not dating Georgie," Jon confirms. "We were together from… eighteen to nineteen? When we started uni, we moved in together and discovered that we were much more suited to best friendship."

A lot of the fault in the end of their relationship had been Jon's. Even years later, he is quietly grateful for Georgie's forgiveness.

"Georgie is… Crucial," Jon adds. He flutters a hand vaguely back and forth, trying to express the necessity of Georgie Barker as part of his existence. "It’s like… Anderson .Paak and bad movies and Wikipedia rabbit holes. She's been wearing my favorite skinny jeans for two months now."

"How'd you meet?" Martin asks. "She isn't from Bournemouth, is she?"

"Er," says Jon.

"Oh?"

"Online," says Jon, very stiffly.

"Tell me."

"If you  _ must _ know, it was, uh. On a forum for sincere believers in the paranormal. The, um, the forum disbanded when it became evident that Georgie and I were the only two users who weren't there ironically, but—we'd exchanged Skypes, and we started talking and discovered that we lived fairly near each other, and— _ stop laughing." _

"Sorry, sorry, " says Martin between giggles. "It's just— _ ghosts? _ I mean, not that I don’t also, but—”

"Well, the site did also cater to alien scholars and conspiracy theorists— _ Martin." _

Martin is making a sincere effort to bite back his smile, but his shoulders are clearly shaking. "I—I'm—pfff, I can't stop, sorry, I'm—you met your best friend of five years talking about  _ chemtrails." _

"Well, fuck  _ me _ for telling you the truth instead of saying  _ dating website _ like we tell everyone else," Jon grumbles.

The phrase 'fuck me' does remind him of something else, though, and once Martin has composed himself, Jon coughs and adds, "Er, for full disclosure, though. When we were teenagers, um, Tim and I were, uh, involved."

"You dated  _ Tim?" _

"I did not," Jon sighs, "'date' Tim."

"Oh," says Martin.  _ "Oh. _ Um, how'd that go?"

"Oh, it was fine." Jon waves a hand. "Mutually useful, to be honest. Tim discovered that he likes sex quite a lot, I discovered something completely different. It was only a few months, and we obviously ended it on good terms."

"He still hits on you," Martin says, slightly petulant. "Like, all the time."

"Tim does that to everyone." Jon raises an eyebrow as he stands up and starts gathering up their dishes. "Tim does that to  _ you, _ Martin, have you not noticed?"

Judging by the spluttering, Martin had not noticed. They head into the kitchen and discuss it as they wash the dishes. Martin repeats all he can remember of the cheesy lines Tim has used on him while they’re on slow shifts together, and Jon inquires how on  _ earth _ he didn’t realize that Tim was flirting, and Martin starts stuttering like a scratchy Walkman, and all is as it should be.

“He’s been doing this since the day you had your interview, you know,” Jon says as they wander back into the living room. “He was on shift when you came in, we heard  _ all _ about it.”

Martin makes some helpless little noises. “I just don’t see  _ why. _ I mean—he’s not—he doesn’t have  _ feelings  _ for me, right?”

“He seems to enjoy your company very much.”

“Oh, you know what I  _ mean—” _

“Yes, yes. I’d theorize that his interest was more carnal.”

Martin covers his face entirely. It occurs to Jon that he should probably be jealous, but—well, he knows how Tim is, and there’s no harm in giving Martin a confidence boost. “He was going to go for it, you know.”

“Wh—what  _ happened?!” _

"Er," says Jon, "no matter. Let’s watch  _ Dead Poets’ Society.” _

Martin removes his face from his hands. “…Jon?”

“It’s,” Jon mutters, cheeks burning, “not important. Let’s watch  _ Dead Poets’ Society.” _

“Jonathan,” says Martin, sounding horribly delighted, “Sims.”

_ “Yes?” _

Martin puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back onto his heels, smiling at Jon like a cherub with a shotgun.

“Yes, yes, I’ve been successfully embarrassing myself for two months, thanks,” Jon grumbles. He leans over to his messenger bag and pulls out his laptop. “I’ll—I’ll—I’ll find a bootleg of the film. Go get us some brownies.”

Martin disappears into the kitchen and comes back, not only with brownies but also with two glasses of water and a napkin for each of them. Jon has settled himself on the sofa, legs tucked underneath himself and Putlocker projected onto the TV screen. He takes the glass with a quiet thanks. Martin sits, a little stiffly, Jon hits play on his laptop, and Welton Academy jumps into motion.

The thing about  _ Dead Poets’ Society _ is that it’s a  _ good film. _ Jon spends the first five minutes feeling nervous about how he’s invited Martin into his bed as soon as the film is done, and then he gets too engrossed in Robin Williams to remember to worry, and then—

Well, and then Martin’s touching his shoulder and whispering, “Jon. Jon, you’re going to hurt your neck if you sleep like that.”

“Hmm,” Jon mumbles vaguely. He yawns and then peels his eyes open. The room is dim, lit only by the credits rolling down the screen and the dim orange streetlamps through the blinds. But there’s enough light that, when he looks at the cast of shadows over Martin’s cheeks, he can see— “Are you  _ crying?” _

“I always do, at the end of this one.” Martin offers him a watery smile, and Jon relaxes, closes his eyes again. “Oh—hey, hey, none of that. It’s bedtime.”

“Well, yes.”

“No, I mean— _ bed _ time.”

Something feels profoundly right about Martin guiding him to his feet and down the hall towards his room. Jon wanders off into the bathroom, with a gesture at his doorway and a yawned, “make yourself at home.”

He brushes his teeth, splashes some water on his face. In the mirror, he looks sleepily content.

In his room, Martin has turned on a lamp. He looks vaguely nervous in his pajama pants and oversized t-shirt. Jon pauses in the doorway, fluttery again. Martin, amongst his piled books and sparse furniture and cat posters and one scraggly plant.

It would be very, very easy to get used to this. He doesn’t say that, but Martin is flushing darker by the moment, so it’s probably showing. Jon heads for his bed. “Bathroom’s all yours.”

“Uh huh,” says Martin, kind of high-pitched.

As they brush shoulders, Jon pauses and rests a hand on the small of Martin’s back, feeling absolutely wicked. Martin makes a little questioning noise—and Jon’s hand slides down and  _ squeezes. _ Martin squeaks and bolts forward like a startled horse, and Jon’s chuckle follows him out.

Jon strips to his boxers and undershirt, then crawls under his covers. He folds his arms over his head and closes his eyes, smirking to himself. There really is something about not being the most nervous person in the room. There’s something about Martin, honestly. There’s something about being awake again in the middle of the night, when everything feels like a shared secret; there’s something about staying on one side of the bed, waiting.

There’s something  _ squeezing at his ribs. _ Jon gasps, eyes flying open and arms flying down. Martin is there in the lamplight, looking incredibly endeared. “Sorry, couldn’t help myself—you’re ticklish?”

_ “No,” _ Jon tries to threaten. “Why would you do this. Get into bed.”

Martin flicks off the lamp and then obeys, pulling the covers over them both. He still looks far too delighted. “Don’t think I’m going to forget that.”

Jon turns to face him, challenge in his eyes. “Oh, is that so?”

Martin blinks. He’s very close. “Huh?”

Jon attacks, finding the soft spots at Martin’s hips and waist and the undersides of his biceps. Jon gets a surprised stream of giggles out of Martin before he starts fighting back, fingers scribbling at Jon’s sides. Jon is determined, but Martin has the advantage of size and strength, so it’s not long before Jon’s curled on his side and trapped snug back against him, shaking with helpless laughter.

Martin lets up, but doesn’t let go. Jon’s breath returns, and when he tries to squirm around, Martin’s arms just get tighter. “Nope,” he says into Jon’s dreads, slightly muffled. “You abused your movement privileges.”

“Oh,  _ I _ abused  _ my _ movement privileges?”

He snuggles back against Martin anyway, enjoying the proximity, the warmth, the arms wrapped tight around him. Martin stills for a moment, then shakes with a sudden laugh.

“What’s funny?”

“Oh, I just—I was going to be nervous about this. The, you know, the bed part.”

“Oh? What happened?”

“I forgot.”

Jon bursts into outright laughter, and then Martin’s giggling, too, and then when Jon stops laughing he feels Martin trying not to laugh against his back and that sends him right off again. He twists around in Martin's arms, smiling into the darkness between their faces. "Mm, that was quite silly of you."

"I was distracted!"

"Oh? Might I ask what by?"

_ "You." _ Martin tweaks his side again as a warning. "You  _ knew _ that, don't look so smug about it!"

"You can't see my face," Jon points out.

"It'd look smug if I could," which, to be fair, is true.

"Well.” Jon tangles his leg between Martin’s, hooking their ankles together. He feels heady. “I  _ did _ distract you.”

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Mm, too late.”

Martin’s retort is cut off by an enormous yawn, and he tucks one arm under his pillow. Jon is actually feeling fairly awake, so he takes Martin’s other hand in both his and starts playing with his fingers, rubbing circles into his palm, smoothing over his pulse point. And it really is too dark to see Martin’s face, but Jon can feel him relaxing, bit by bit.

Martin’s eyes flutter shut after a while, and once his breathing goes slow and even, Jon turns and tucks himself underneath Martin’s arm, presses himself back against his chest.

He’s pretty sure that, when he drifts off, he’s still smiling.

* * *

Jon becomes aware of a shifting in the weight on his bed.

The warmth behind him pulls away, and even when Jon mumbles and moves to follow it, there's nothing but a murmured apology that winds its way through his muffled awareness. The loss of warmth is so awful that Jon makes a semi-conscious choice not to be aware of anything else either, and he drifts off again.

He wakes up properly a good deal later—around eight, judging by the sun through the windows. Martin is sitting on the side of the bed, sipping slowly from a mug. There's another mug on Jon's desk, because, of course. Jon sits up, bringing all the blankets with him, and leans against Martin's shoulderblades.

"Hey, you," Martin says softly.

Jon responds with something that, maybe, could charitably be called words.

He becomes aware of what had awakened him, which is a loud, hungry Admiral outside the door. Grumbling, Jon pulls a blanket over his shoulders and staggers out to feed the damn beast. When he returns, he crawls right back in to nestle up against Martin, who passes him the second mug.

"Good morning," says Martin, smile in his voice.

Jon frowns through his yawn. "S'funny?"

"Oh, nothing, just—you're cute when you're sleepy. All grumpy."

"Hmm," says Jon, and then gives up on taking umbrage—Martin is just too damn cozy. Jon manages to finagle the blanket around both their shoulders and snuggles up against Martin's arm, sipping from the mug. Tea. He'd forgotten he  _ owned _ tea.

Too late, he realizes how much he's touching Martin, remembers that Martin's gotten shuddery and anxious over it before. "Oh—sorry, is this okay? I—you don't have to—"

"Hmm?" says Martin, who sounds kind of dreamy.

"You know—touching." Jon gestures between them. "I—I mean, I know we just—but, it's, uh, it seems to have bothered you before—I'll just—"

He starts moving away. Martin makes a distressed noise and wraps an arm around Jon's waist, which—well, definitely not a problem. "No, no, wait, hang on—it's not like that, it's not  _ bad, _ just—a lot. Overwhelming."

Jon examines him closely. "You'd tell me? If it did bother you?"

"Course," Martin says fondly. "Come here."

He puts down his mug and hugs Jon into his side, resting his cheek on the top of Jon's hair, and Jon melts against him.

"You don't own a coffee machine," Martin says after a moment.

"Hmm? No—I thought you didn't like coffee anyway?"

"Let me rephrase.  _ You _ don't own a  _ coffee machine?" _

"Oh, come now, that's what I have Breaking Grounds for."

He can  _ hear _ the eyeroll as Martin turns them both so he's facing Jon's back. "You know, you  _ could _ just—"

Martin starts absently kneading at Jon's traps, and whatever he's about to say is cut off by Jon's  _ moan. _

Martin's hands freeze. Jon sucks in a sharp, ragged breath and then comes back to himself with utter mortification. "I—I'm sorry, th-that doesn't—I don't usually—"

"Is—was that okay?" Martin asks, very softly.

_ "Yes," _ says Jon, too quick. As an afterthought, he adds, "Wait, um—you know I don't do sex—?"

"Yeah, Melanie told me." Warmth flows through Jon's chest at that. He sets down his mug and tilts his shoulders back towards Martin's hands, trying to get them moving again. "Just sounded like that felt good."

"Mm," says Jon. And then, "hnngh" and  _ "oh" _ and "hahhh" and a lot of other noises he'd probably be embarrassed about if his head weren't fuzzing around the edges. Martin's hands are actually pretty small for a guy his size, but they're deft and sure. Slowly, Jon slumps back into Martin's chest, the firmness of his binder.

When Martin's successfully worked over his shoulders enough to turn him into mush, he takes Jon's chin in one hand and tilts Jon's head back. It'd be audacious if it weren't done so gently. Jon swallows, and his Adam's apple bobs against the pad of Martin's pinky. "Martin?"

"You're so tense," Martin whispers. With his other hand, he starts rubbing up the tendons at the side and back of Jon's neck.

"Yes, well—hnn—I do spend— _ ah _ —a fair amount of time, ah, bent over a computer—"

"That's not  _ good _ for you," Martin says, reproachful.

"Well, i-if it gets you to-to-to do this—"

_ "Jon," _ Martin chides. He lets go of Jon's chin and moves down to knead at his—well, his upper arms; it'd really be too charitable to call what Jon has  _ deltoids. _ It's a little ticklish, but in the nice way, and Jon shivers and sighs and melts back against Martin's warmth.

Martin works down Jon's arms, and finally settles with both hands loose around Jon's wrists, thumbs stroking his pulse points. It's shifted into some kind of embrace—Martin's wingspan is ridiculous, but he still has to press himself up against Jon's back to reach. He's kind of breathing right up against Jon's neck, which isn't helping with the goosebumps situation. Jon tilts his head back onto Martin's shoulder, turns.

He kisses the shell of Martin's ear lightly: a question. Martin makes a choked little noise.

"Oh?" says Jon, low and curling. He frees his wrists from Martin's grasp and turns further until he's pretty much sitting in Martin's lap, legs thrown out to one side. Martin's arms loop around to support him. Jon cups Martin's chin in one hand, presses it up to bare the side of his neck. He kisses a slow trail up from Martin's collarbone, and then settles in under his jaw, working at the soft skin there with gentle teeth and light suction.

Martin's breathing gets significantly noisier.

"Thank you," Jon whispers into Martin's neck. Martin trembles. Jon kisses the mark he's left and then moves up to kiss his cheek, the tip of his nose. The corner of his mouth.

He pauses there. Martin stays perfectly still.

“Well,” says Jon, suddenly nervous, suddenly brave. “I suppose it’s about time, isn’t it?”

Martin huffs out a wry laugh. “Something like that,” he agrees, and then he kisses him.

And then he kisses him, and then he kisses him, and then he kisses him, and then he kisses him, and then he kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/medeawasright/status/1244073864159793152?s=19) [tumblr](https://dicaeopolis.tumblr.com/post/613885481543958528) [betsy](http://www.twitter.com/owlinaminor)
> 
> comments make my night!!


	5. Tim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Sasha and Jon go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick note: we're getting into the "some things will hurt but they WILL get better and that is a THREAT" parts of this fic, including (in this chapter and a few later ones) some discussion of death/grief. it's all dealt with gently, and it’s not any major characters, but i wanted to give you guys a heads up nonetheless - feel free to message me on twitter/tumblr if you need more details prior to reading.
> 
> suggested listening: forever (matt lucas), together tomorrow (tom chapin)

_Name:_ Tim Stoker  
_Usual:_ Cold brew, regardless of weather  
_Statement taken November 16th, 2019, 21:36 pm. Location: childhood bed of Timothy Stoker, in a little blue house near-but-not-quite-on the beach, Bournemouth._

"Mm, we visited her earlier… Oh, it was fine, you know. She's resigned herself to having a grandson by now, so it was mostly just an hour or so of awkward small talk… Yes, we've always spent most of our time here anyways… Not quite yet, but Sasha's ordered pizza—are you asking if I _forgot_ to have dinner? I'm not _quite_ that—oh, go get dinner _yourself._ So there. Yes. Mmhmm. _Bye,_ Martin." Jon hangs up, a smile lurking around the corners of his mouth, and heads back inside the little blue house.

Tim's parents' house isn't on the beach, but it's close. Jon and Sasha grew up on the same street downtown, and Sasha and Tim, both of whose parents were born in Vietnam, knew each other through the network of families that any and every group of immigrants forms. Which is how Jon found the only two friends he managed to make in his first seventeen years of life.

So Jon's spent plenty of time in this little blue house near-but-not-quite-on the beach. Chasing critters around the scrubby backyard in spring, walking barefoot down to the beach in the summer, crowded around the dinner table with Tim and Sasha and Danny in autumn, secreted away in Tim's room trying to keep their noises down when they were fifteen and it was winter.

When Jon's parents passed, it hadn't been particularly public. He'd lived with his grandmother since he was in diapers, and his parents weren't local. But the Stokers had known, and they'd impressed it firmly upon their son to bring Jon over as often as possible. Tim, who was already flourishing into a social butterfly at seven years old, had done so enthusiastically.

Tim's parents' house has been empty for near-exactly five years now.

The family room is lit only by the lamps, their light gleaming off the dust covers on the sofa and armchairs and TV. Jon has spent more childhood holidays here than in his own house. Most of his memories of this room involve huddling over a board game in the corner with Tim and Sasha and Danny and some of Tim’s infinite other friends as crowds of adults socialized around them; Jon was always fidgety and stuttering until he inevitably got to the point of shouting over Monopoly and forgot to be nervous at all.

Tonight, Tim is standing at the family photos wall with Sasha, gesturing animatedly at his and Danny's gap-toothed grins and describing the trips to Disney Paris and the cabin in Wales and their grandparents in Hanoi. Sasha's heard it all before, as has Jon—hell, they _remember_ when most of the events on the walls happened—but she's nodding along, asking all the right questions, and holding Tim's hand. Jon joins them, taking Tim's other hand. He hadn't liked leaving him even for the quick phone call.

"How's the boyfriend?" Tim asks, pausing mid-monologue.

"He's not my boyfriend," Jon mutters automatically. Well… _Are_ they boyfriends? He sends a quick text to Martin with his free hand: _are we boyfriends?_

"Really? What's keeping you?"

"I—I'm _working on it,"_ Jon huffs as he shoves his phone back into his pocket. In front of them, Danny beams out of a picture frame. Tim's hand always feels very small in his when they do this. "Martin is _fine,_ thanks very much. Gone to visit his mum."

"Oh, good for him."

They did stop by the graves earlier. Left some daffodils, and then spread out a scratchy yellow blanket in the dying November grass and ate lunch that Sasha's parents had sent. Tim tuned up his old guitar from home, and they sang the only songs he knew, which were Sweet Caroline, I'm Yours, and Wonderwall, and then they messed around with chords and snatches of verses until Tim's uncalloused fingers started to hurt. The gravestones, tucked away in a shady back corner, are starting to look weathered; they aren't the newest ones in the cemetery anymore.

"Food got here while you were out," Sasha puts in. "Joey says hi."

"What—Joey Cheng? She's _driving_ now?"

"She's seventeen, Jon," Sasha tells him.

 _"No."_ Jon frowns. "She is?"

"People age, Jonathan," says Tim, supremely patronizing.

"Bloody rude of them."

They carry the pizza through the dusty kitchen and up the stairs. It's a little awkward getting up without breaking contact, but Jon carries the box in one hand and Sasha tucks the bottle of 7-up under her arm and they turn half-sideways to make it up to Tim's old bedroom. For his last year of school before uni, Tim had lived with cousins the next town over, so the room is a time capsule of Tim at sixteen: football posters, too-small sneakers, a neatly made twin bed.

Tim flicks on his lava lamp, Sasha resting her fingertips on the small of his back. Jon lets go of his other hand, too, and puts the pizza down to loop his arms around Tim's waist. He rests his cheek on Tim's angel bones, listening to him breathe.

When they first started doing this, Jon had tentatively suggested the anniversary of the accident. It had been Sasha's idea to do it for Danny's birthday instead. Only a week later—a sting all of its own, but in this case convenient—and Tim had visibly brightened at the thought.

"You don't have to do this, you know," Tim says, very quietly. The words vibrate against Jon's cheek.

"We know," Sasha says. Jon nods against Tim's back.

The thing is that Tim had had a best friend long before he met Sasha and Jon. And Danny Stoker had been sunshine, laughter, ever in motion. A picnic lunch, a walk on the beach in your hometown, a sloppy rendition of Sweet Caroline next to a headstone. A birthday.

So they do it like this instead.

Tim sits, with his back against the wall, and Jon and Sasha settle down on either side of him. Tim wraps his arms around both of their shoulders, and then discovers that he can't eat like that, and complains vociferously until Jon starts feeding him pizza to shut him up.

Sasha then attempts to pour 7-up down Tim's throat, which goes less successfully. While Tim coughs and Sasha pats up the soda with a stray t-shirt, Jon slides out his phone to check the notification he'd felt buzz earlier.

Martin has replied to Jon's text with a long string of letters. Jon frowns down at his phone and tilts it to show Tim and Sasha. "What does this mean?"

"It's a keysmash, Jon," says Sasha, in her infinite wisdom.

"What does that mea—"

He is interrupted by Tim hooting. When he snatches the screen back, there is a new text from Martin: _let's talk about it when I get back, yeah?_

"It means he's a bottom," Tim adds when he's done going _ooooohhhh._

"You befuddle me," Jon tells him despairingly, and feeds him another slice of pizza.

There's also an email from Professor Lagorio. Jon makes a faint disgusted noise, and, to Sasha's raised eyebrow, clarifies, "Neil is trying to talk to me. On a _Saturday."_ He puts the phone away without bothering to open the email.

Tim is attempting to say something. _"Stop,"_ Jon says urgently. "Please don't ever make me look at your mouth like that ever again."

Tim rolls his eyes, but swallows his disgusting mouthful of half-chewed pizza and licks the grease off his lips before repeating, "I said, how's the creepy-spookies coming?"

"Creepy-spookies." Jon sighs. "It's—it's alright. We've got some initial results, at least? Conditioning doesn't happen quickly, though—it'll be at least a month before we can do much more than establish base levels of resistance…"

"You sound a little discouraged," Sasha observes.

"Oh, not _discouraged,_ just—the more I think about it, the more variables I notice. What sort of positive stimulus can _reliably_ counter the fear response? Even if our work succeeds, if the results vary too much from person to person, they won't be usable at all."

"I kinda see it," Tim muses. He removes his arms from around Jon and Sasha to down some more 7-up, then continues, "There's no way to _really_ stop being afraid, is there?"

Jon stills,. "How do you mean?"

"Nothing you fear can be _predicted,_ right? All the terrifying things that happen, they'll blindside you no matter what measures you take." Tim's tone is calm and logical. Jon meets Sasha's eyes, and she puts her arms around Tim as Jon takes his hand. "You don't really have anything but faith that it won't—that it won't take _more—"_

There it is. The break.

Once a year, Jon and his two oldest friends go home to the little blue house near-but-not-quite-on the sea. Once a year, Jon sees Tim Stoker crack, shatter, fall.

He and Sasha have never discussed it. They just come with him, once a year, to hold Tim in one piece until today passes.

Jon presses his thumb in circles into Tim's palm until he starts shaking, and then keeps doing it until the quiet choked noises in the empty old bedroom fade and Tim shudders and stills.

Tim exhales, long and weary. Jon feels the first of the tension start to uncoil from the body next to him.

"You guys _really_ don't have to—" Tim begins.

"Swear to god, if you're about to tell us we don't have to be here," Sasha cuts him off sternly, and Jon nods in agreement. She takes Tim's face in her hands and gives him the kind of kiss on the forehead that cannot be argued with.

"Okay, okay." Tim sighs. The smile is beginning to ease back into his voice.

Jon leans up and kisses his cheek, light and sure. "Lie down, will you? It's past ten, and we've got an early train."

He knows it's going to be alright when Tim grins at him, wavery but there. _"Someone's_ getting old."

"You don't _have_ to—"

"No, no, I'm gonna." Tim twists around and sprawls over both of them, head in Sasha's lap and legs thrown across Jon's.

Jon scrunches up his nose, pushing at Tim's leg with absolutely no force. "Why'd I have to get the end with the smelly feet?"

"Cause I like Sasha better," Tim says blithely.

Jon squeezes Tim's knee. Tim _shrieks,_ and Sasha starts cackling. Tim pushes himself up on his elbows to sulk at Jon, but Sasha tugs him back down by the hair. Jon smirks at Tim, and Tim just rolls his eyes.

"You deserved that," Sasha tells him. She starts combing through his hair with her fingers. Tim manages a vaguely indignant _mmph._

"Hush," Jon tells him. He starts stroking Tim's ankle between his sock and the hem of his jeans, firm and soothing. "Let us love you."

Jon and Sasha don't move until long after Tim's breathing has gone steady and slow. Even then, it's only to shift around a little bit: Sasha takes the outside, Tim's head nestled into the crook of her shoulder, and Jon squeezes in between Tim and the wall, throwing an arm around Tim's waist and nuzzling into his shoulders.

"It used to be so much easier to fit us all in this bed," Jon mumbles.

He feels Sasha's laugh, and then they're drifting, too, Tim safe between them.

And they wake up to the sun on the day after Danny would've been twenty, and they lock up the little blue house near-but-not-quite-on the beach for another year, and they take the train home.

* * *

_November 18, 8:04 a.m._

_Melanie  
_ Sims, are you up?  
Jon?  
Fucking hell  
Jesus  
Jon  
Wake up  
Jon wake UP

MISSED CALL - MELANIE GHOST HUNT UK GEORGIE’S FRIEND (3)

 _Melanie  
_ Fucking christ alive Jon wake UP  
Fuck  
I hate you you know that right?  
I want you dead  
I really do

 _Jon  
_ Sorry, I was asleep; what’s going on?  
Is everything alright?

 _Melanie  
_wheres martin?

 _Jon_  
What?

 _Melanie_  
Where the FUCK is my roommate

 _Jon  
_ At your place, presumably?  
Wasn’t he meant to be coming home last night?  
Melanie?  
Melanie???

NOW CALLING: MELANIE GHOST HUNT UK GEORGIE’S FRIEND…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/medeawasright) [tumblr](https://dicaeopolis.tumblr.com/post/615104199972241408) [betsy](http://www.twitter.com/owlinaminor)


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